


Collision Course

by mommymuffin



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And some other stuff..., Brotherly Bonding, Crossover, Dean Has Nightmares, Kid Fic, M/M, Magic, Murder, Pack Bonding, Shopping, Stiles Has Nightmares, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:24:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 72,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommymuffin/pseuds/mommymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After rescuing an infant from a suspicious car crash, the Winchesters and their angel find themselves on the path to Beacon Hills with only a name to guide them: Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All right, so...here's this...thing...I've been sitting on for a while. I don't know, guys. If you know me at all, you know by now that I don't ever know where these ideas come from and I certainly never know where they're going (this one I kind of know?). Anyway. If you're looking for a Supernatural and Teen Wolf crossover fic where they acquire a baby--you're in luck. 
> 
> If/when I post more, I'll update the tags and that sort of thing. I don't know what tags to put, because I don't know what's going to happen just yet?? So...yeah.
> 
> Story Notes: This story starts after the dead pool season of Teen Wolf and at the end of season 8 when the angels fall in Supernatural (there's a nice little prologue here which completely rewrites the end of s8). It goes sideways from there so just. Just, yeah. I haven't watched much past either of those points, but I'm vaguely aware of things that happened, and I can guarantee that that's not what's going to happen here, so keep in mind this is VERY canon divergent (I mean, there's a baby in it, come on, you know what you're signing up for). If you read my Breathe Me Series, then you're familiar with that thing I do where I take all the threads the show left me and I attempt to tie them all together? This story is like that times 1,000. Two shows is just like...woof. (Why am I doing this to myself???) Also, it feels very Supernatural heavy at first and I think that's because I had to change so much from it? But they meet soon enough and then it's all one big...lump, I'm gonna say lump. So if you're a fan of one show or the other more, just you know, bear with it for a chapter (and a prologue) and then we're off.
> 
> Anyway. I've got some more of this written, but not worked out quite right just yet, so expect more, just not...all...yet...
> 
> Oh, and enjoy and all that~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're diving right into the ending scenes of Supernatural season 8!

"...I'll listen."

The words are like a knife beneath Castiel's ribcage.

"It's too late for that, Naomi."

Tears welling in her eyes, Naomi looks at the ground instead of at Castiel. "Yes, I...I thought as much. For that I truly _am_ sorry. If there is anything I can do to change your mind—"

"There isn't. Not outside of brainwashing me as you have done so many times before, which I assure you, I will _never_ let happen again."

"I only meant, if I could make it up to you someh—"

"I don't care what you meant," Castiel snaps.

"Cas," Dean says urgently. "We gotta go. I gotta get to Sam."

"Please," Naomi interrupts Castiel's reply. "Let me help with that."

The next second Castiel is left standing there alone in the damp air.

"Sonuva—" Dean cuts off as he steadies himself and shakes Naomi's hand off his shoulder. "Get off me, you damn harpy."

She doesn't scold him or try to correct him, only holds her tongue and looks cowed.

Dean's lip curls as he leaves her standing next to the Impala and runs inside the broken-down church to stop his brother.

Cas is there a beat later. He's immediately in Naomi's face, fury in his eyes and voice. "Don't you _ever_ take Dean like that again."

Naomi opens her mouth to reply, but seems to think better of whatever first came to mind. "I am sorry. I was only trying to help."

"We do not need _your_ help," Castiel spits.

"Then, I suppose I should return to heaven."

Castiel glowers at her before glancing at the sleek, black car beside them. "Actually I have a better idea," he says popping the Impala's trunk with a snap of his fingers.

Naomi straightens up, at attention. "Yes?"

Castiel finds what he's looking for and turns to Naomi. "You can stay out of my way."

He tosses a bottle of holy oil to the ground and by his angelic power it forms the necessary barrier around Naomi and then ignites.

Naomi looks shocked that Castiel would do such a thing. It's laughable. For all that she has been inside his head, she still doesn't know him at all.

Cas smirks at her, glad to have one-upped her. He's just about to teleport to Heaven to free Metatron, when he hears Dean's voice calling desperately for him.

"Cas! Cas, help Sam! He's—"

 _Not doing well_ is how Castiel would label that.

Dean is practically dragging his brother out of the church, stumbling under his awkward height beside him. Sam goes down as Dean reaches the Impala and the elder hunter looks up at Castiel with scared, scared eyes.

Castiel kneels in front of Sam and places a palm on his forehead. He concentrates for a moment, taking stock of the damage.

"He is not well," Castiel says, stating the obvious. "The power that manifested within him during the trials has ravaged his body. It is gone, but the damage is not. I believe I can heal him, but it may take some time."

"Please," Naomi says, "allow me to help."

Castiel and Dean both throw her the stink eye, but a fit of coughing by Sam draws their attention back.

"Sammy," Dean says, taking his brother's face in his hands, "it's gonna be all right. Cas is gonna fix you right up, good as new."

"Dean," Castiel says, pulling the hunter's gaze to him. "I need to go to Heaven. I have to free Metatron while I have the chance. While Naomi is detained and no one is looking for me."

Dean shakes his head slowly. He can't believe this. "Cas—" No. He's not doing this again.

"Heal, Sam. Then you can go flit off to wherever the hell you want, because I don't care anymore, Cas!" Dean shouts. "I don't care what you do or where you go or who you do it with! I'm _done_ with you!"

Castiel draws back, stung.

"Oh, don't look all hurt," Dean spits. "You ain't been much of a friend here lately, Castiel. Brainwashed or not. Just fix Sammy and get the hell out of my sight."

Castiel swallows once, then sets his hands on Sam and begins the healing process. It's hard work. The very powers of Heaven had filled Sam and they had not been kind to their vessel. Castiel is having to repair each wound by mental hand. There are many.

Nearly thirty minutes has passed by the time he has finished. Dean has stewed silently behind him, eyes tracking between Sam and Naomi and their surroundings constantly. He doesn't look at Castiel.

Naomi for her part has remained silent as well. For all appearances she has neither called for help nor tried to free herself. Whether it's out of respect or apology or fear that Castiel will drive his angel blade through her heart should she dare, none of them can say. But it doesn't matter anyway, so long as she stays put.

Castiel stands and Dean darts in, checking his brother over. Sam blearily blinks at him, but he sits up straighter and his breathing is even and the color in his cheeks is healthy.

"God, Sammy," Dean says, eyes watering. "Thought I might have lost you there for a second or two."

Sam smiles. "Winchesters are harder to get rid of than that. You know that."

"Yeah, I do," Dean says, helping him to his feet.

Sam catches Cas watching them and says, "Thank you, Cas."

"Of course," Castiel says.

Dean is not looking at him with much gratitude in his gaze. It is mainly bitter resentment Castiel sees there.

Castiel clears his throat. "Well...I...I guess I'll head to Heaven now."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Bye, Cas."

It sounds final and Castiel feels a pain behind his ribs that he has only ever experienced where Dean was involved.

"Dean," Cas tries.

"I don't wanna hear it, Cas. Thanks for healing Sam. Now get out of here."

Castiel takes one deep breath. He's about to do just as Dean asked, perhaps never to see the hunter again, but a rushing of sound from above gives him pause. His eyes travel upward.

When he lets out his breath, it is in a horrified gasp.

There is fire in the sky.

Enormous blossoms of light in every corner of the clouds. They erupt into shooting streaks like meteors hurtling toward the earth.

But they are not meteors.

"What's happening?" Sam asks.

All eyes are trained on the raining fire.

"The angels," Dean says, disbelieving. "They're falling."

"No!" Naomi screeches.

"How is this happening?" Castiel asks.

"Castiel!" Naomi barks. "What did Metatron have you do?"

Castiel looks back at her.

No.

No, this can't be his fault.

Not again.

 _No_.

The collisions start. Great booming impacts with the earth all around them. Sam and Dean flinch, watching it all happen in slow motion as if time were stretching to prolong this moment and sear its horror into their minds for eternity.

"Castiel, what did he have you do?!" Naomi shrieks.

"The heart of a nephilim...and the bow of a Cupid," Cas answers slowly.

Naomi's eyes widen in fear. "No," she whispers.

"He said it was the ritual to close the Gates of Heaven."

"It wasn't a ritual, you fool! It was a spell!" Naomi screeches. "It was a spell to cast the angels out of Heaven!"

"No," Cas says, stepping back unconsciously and shaking his head. Dean and Sam are watching he and Naomi now. Plumes of smoke and fire still burst from the upper limits of the horizon. Angels still indent the earth, craters all around them.

"Look what you've done!" Naomi yells at Castiel.

"No. This was not my intention."

"It doesn't matter if it was your intention! It's what is happening! Right! Now! All of your brothers and sisters, Castiel. You have cursed us _all!_ "

Castiel takes another step backward, the urge to run rising. It's only a hand gripping his shoulder tight that stops him from taking flight.

It's Dean.

"Let's get out of here!" he shouts.

The sky roils as it spits up the last of Heaven's children. Several figures are standing up where they fell.

They _fell_.

 _I did this_ , roars in Castiel's head. He doesn't speak.

"Cas, let's move! We gotta get out of here!"

Sam is already climbing into the passenger seat. "Dean, hurry!"

Shapes are moving toward them in the illuminated night.

When Cas still continues to only stare at him, Dean growls and yanks open the back door, bodily shoving Castiel in and slamming it shut behind him.

"Dean Winchester!" Naomi calls as Dean rounds the Impala's front. Dean looks at her over the roof of the car. "Let me out of this circle right now!"

Dean scoffs. "Not in a million years, lady."

Naomi's cry of frustration and rage is muffled as Dean closes himself up in the car.

"What about Crowley?" Sam asks.

"We ain't got time, Sammy. We'll leave him for the angels to deal with."

Dean throws the car into drive and peels away just as the first enraged figure pops out of the woods.

"Shit, floor it!" Sam says.

"Glad you're feeling better, Sam," Dean grumbles, "but I'm the one driving here, so keep your action-movie comments to yourself!"

Another shadowy figure comes out from the woodlands and Dean guns it.

"Holy _shit_ ," he says as they make their escape.

"Holy shit," Sam repeats.

The backseat is quiet and Sam turns over his shoulder to look at Cas. Dean glances at him in the mirror, but doesn't spare him more than that.

"Cas, you doing all right?" Sam asks.

Cas shakes his head. "I...I did this…"

"I was kind of half out of it for a lot of this," Sam says, "but I'm pretty sure it was Metatron who did it. Probably out of revenge or something."

"But I...I helped him," Cas says, lost.

"Shut up, Cas," Dean snaps. "You screwed up, but it ain't completely your fault, so quit your bellyachin'."

"Dean…" Cas says, pleadingly, begging to understand. "Why did you bring me with you? Why didn't you just leave me there?"

Dean shoots a steely glare at Castiel through the rearview mirror. "Things changed. I'm not just gonna leave you to fend for yourself when every angel is suddenly on Earth and out for your blood. Our blood, probably," Dean corrects with a scowl.

Castiel looks at Dean for a long few seconds. Sam is watching him, but doesn't try to get him to say anything. Cas finally settles on, "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says. "Let's just figure out what the hell to do about all this."


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's establish wassup in BH, yeah? But first, more SPN.

It's been two weeks since the angels fell.

Dean and Sam returned to the bunker with Castiel to find that Kevin had gotten the hell out of Dodge again. He left a note, saying the angel tablet told him how to hide the tablets from angels, demons, and humans alike, and so that's what he's set out to do with both tablets. He said not to contact him ever again.

With that news the trio hits the road. It was agreed that to stay moving would be their best bet. As it stands, Castiel and Naomi are the only two angels on Earth with a full bar left. Potentially Naomi could track them pretty easily, but they figure she might have her hands full with Metatron and an entire fallen host for a while. Castiel informed them that while the fallen angels may not teleport, that will not stop them from pursuing them; "angel radio" still has everyone linked in and Cas has found that the chatter is not favorable toward them. They all conclude that the fallen angels will be after them "with a vengeance" as it were. Public Enemy No. 1, basically. Their plan is to always be outrunning them, so Castiel burns some good ole Enochian sigils into his ribs to hide him from the fallen and they're on their way.

They don't know what to expect from Crowley, if Naomi will have killed him or not. There's also Abaddon to consider, but again there's not much they can do there.

Sam's health has been holding, much to his brother's relief. To Sam's relief Dean's anger toward Castiel has not held, but faded with time and with the angel's confession that he never wishes to leave the Winchesters again.

"I only make mistakes when I am not with you," he tells them. "It would be best to stay with you."

Dean says, "damn right," and wordlessly forgives Cas for at least most of it. Castiel's sadness only lessens after Dean forgives him. The angel still remains guiltily quiet most hours of most days; he claims "angel radio" is no more for him and that the silence bothers him greatly. Dean always has music on in the Impala.

With that everyone is relatively back to normal, for any definition of normal in the Winchester brothers' lives.

They're on the run until a solution presents itself, which depressingly for Sam and Dean isn't all that unusual.

Currently, they're rattling down a backroad in Wyoming, a little two-lane thing with deteriorating asphalt and little to no signs of other people, which is just how they like it.

Yet however empty the road is, there's always _something_ to catch the Winchesters' attention.

A car is off to the left of the strip of pavement even though it had been heading the same direction as the Impala is now.

"Dean," Sam says, urgency in his voice.

"I see it," Dean says, cutting the wheel.

Cas sits up straighter in the back seat to see what they're talking about. "A crash," he announces.

"Looks like it," Dean replies.

He pulls to a stop a few yards in front of the other vehicle; they all pile out instantly.

Sam with his long-legged gait is the first to reach the driver's side of the car. He stops short when he finds it slung open and empty.

"Dean. There's no one here," he says, alarmed.

"What?" Dean inquires, rounding the vehicle. It's clearly a crash; the front end is one part tree.

When he looks at the empty cab, he frowns deeply, Cas doing the same as he brings up the rear.

"Where could the driver have gone?" the angel asks.

"I don't know," Dean says, leaning around the steering wheel. He turns the key, shutting down the engine that had still been on, idling. Straightening back up he declares. "Wherever they went—they went in a hurry."

"They couldn't have gone far," Sam decides. "Let's look."

"Yeah," Dean agrees.

Sam was right and they don't have to look too long. Less than thirty yards into the woods they find a woman.

They rush to her, Sam arriving first again. The woman is panting, clawing at the ground in front of her and attempting to drag herself along with one hand.

"She's still alive," he yells as he turns her over to face him. He halts dead in his tracks, when he sees a baby clutched in her other arm.

She screams shortly, then seems to realize Sam isn't—well, whoever she thought he might be—and gasps in sobbing breaths.

"Ma'am, what happened?" Sam asks her.

She shakes her head at him. Dean and Castiel come up behind the younger Winchester, expressions going shocked as they see the infant.

"Let us help you," Sam says.

She's too short of breath to do much by way of speaking. There's blood. It's all over her, Sam isn't sure where it's coming from or what caused it aside from the wound on her forehead. It doesn't look like she has much time left.

Her voice is wet when it comes out, thready and weak. Sam thinks she may have a punctured lung.

"H...Hale…" she whispers.

Sam leans in closer and asks, "What?"

"Hale," she repeats. "Bea-c-con Hills...Hal-le...please…"

She's trying to pass the baby over to him, but she's too weak to get very far. Dean steps in and takes the child from her, while Sam continues to prop her up.

"...Please…"

In the next breath she's gone.

Sam turns distraught. He lays the woman's body down gently on the ground, then stands to look at his brother. Dean is looking at the baby in his arms, concern written all over his features. Castiel is looking around in every direction, no doubt checking that they're alone.

Sam clears his throat, asks thickly, "The baby?"

"Alive," Dean says. "Seems all right. Looking at me like nothing's wrong."

Sam nods. "Good. That's good."

"What the hell happened here?" Dean asks, finally tearing his eyes away from the baby.

"I don't know," Sam says. "It looks like...she was running from something."

"From whatever made her crash her car," Dean says.

"There was no other car," Castiel comments. "What caused her to crash?"

"Something that doesn't drive," Dean says.

"Maybe it was just a deer?" Sam offers.

"Kinda doubt she'd be running from a deer," Dean says gravely.

"Supernatural then," Sam says with a sigh, finally admitting it out loud.

"You think the crash was deliberate then," Cas says.

"Can't see how it wasn't if she was trying so hard to get away from the crash site," Dean says.

"She was crawling away," Sam says, looks down at her legs. "I think her legs are broken, but she was still trying to get away."

"Something real bad then," Dean says.

"You think it's a ghost? Haunting the road again?" Sam queries.

"Kind of doubt it. Wouldn't have followed her once she was out of the car."

"No," Sam agrees. "And it wasn't something that wanted to eat her. It would have done it by now."

"It was more malicious than that," Castiel concludes.

Dean nods. "Think so. She looks beat up way worse than that crash would have caused. Whatever did this, it was personal. Can you find an ID?"

Sam goes to check her pockets methodically. He finds nothing.

"Let's check the car," Dean says.

They find an ID belonging to one Tara Jessop from Massachusetts. Interesting on account of the car plates saying Indiana.

"A woman from Massachusetts in a car from Indiana in Wyoming," Dean summarizes. "She was definitely running from something." The hunter's eyes drift back down to the baby. "They were running."

Sam rummages around in the backseat and produces a diaper bag. After some digging, he finds a birth certificate.

"Emma," he says. "That's...the baby's name."

Dean stiffens. Emma. That had been the name of his—his daughter, the Amazon.

Sam swallows nervously. He had shot and killed Dean's daughter, when she had tried to kill Dean.

"Dean…" he says cautiously.

Dean shakes off his haunting memories, ignores Sam, and looks down at the child. To the baby Dean says in a light tone, "Emma. That's you." This Emma has downy brown hair and steel blue eyes. She is not reminiscent of Dean's Emma in anyway except her name.

Emma watches him with a curious eye as he speaks to her, but doesn't respond otherwise.

"How old is she?" Dean asks.

"Uhh…" Sam looks at the date, does the math. "Just over three months."

"Damn," Dean mutters. "What else can you find? Anything?"

"No," Sam says. "Just the rental information for the car."

"All right," Dean says. "Call the cops and get 'em here. We need to find a hotel room and find out what she was saying meant."

"She said "Hale" and "Beacon Hills"," Sam ponders.

"Well, I assume she didn't mean the kind that falls from the sky," Dean says. "So. There's somebody named Hale in a place somewhere called Beacon Hills, undoubtedly west of here. And that's who she wanted us to go to with her kid."

Sam nods. "I think so."

Dean shrugs. "We don't have anything better to do. May as well go find it."

"So we're...hunting again?" Sam asks.

Dean looks over at him, face relaxed. "Guess so."

 

It's sort of cathartic. Hunting again. It's like it puts the world right again for the Winchesters. No more running without purpose.

They get a room at the usual cheap motel, but this time have a crib rolled in. It's not even the first time, so nothing really feels all that strange about it. It's just another job to take care of; another hunt to finish.

Dean goes about setting up a bottle for a fussing Emma in the small kitchenette. He takes stock of the contents of the diaper bag; they have enough diapers and formula to last about a week, he thinks.

"This is that shifter baby all over again," he mutters. "Thought I was done with infant care."

"At least she isn't a shifter," Sam says, then pauses. "As far as we can tell anyway."

"Yeah, kid seems normal so far," Dean says, shaking the bottle up.

"Oh, hey. There's a place in California called Beacon Hills," Sam tells Dean and Cas, nose in his laptop.

"How far is that?" Dean asks.

Sam taps at his keyboard a few times. "About eighteen hours."

"Take us two days to get there then," Dean grunts. Switching to a sweeter pitch, he puts the bottle to Emma's mouth and says, "Guess you're going to be stuck with us for a while, munchkin."

Sam smirks at his brother's behavior; he's such a sucker for kids. He's turning back to his laptop when he catches Castiel looking over at Dean and Emma, an intense expression on his face.

Sam clears his throat and goes back to typing. He's not touching that one.

"Oh, man…" Sam says dejectedly a few moments later.

"What'd you find?" Dean asks, bottle pitched perfectly in his hand to eliminate any air bubbles.

"The Jessops," Sam says. "They're all dead."

"Wow," Dean says. "That sucks. Guess that's why Tara was looking for these Hale people."

"No, Dean, you don't understand. They're all dead _recently_ ," Sam says.

"How recently?" Dean asks, suspicious now.

"Recent, recent. The first one died twenty-one days ago."

"How many?" Dean queries.

"Tara makes eleven as of today."

"Geez. Eleven people in twenty-one days. Something is wiping these people out."

"That's not all," Sam says.

"How can there be more?" Dean asks, astounded.

"Six more people have died in the past twenty-one days all in same town in Massachusetts—and get this: they were all known friends of the Jessops."

"Shit. Somebody really had it out for these people."

"Agreed," Cas says.

Sam is clacking away furiously at his keyboard, clearly looking for something.

"Uh oh," he says suddenly, drawing their attention.

"What now?" Dean asks, frowning deeply as Emma sucks away on the bottle, tucked neatly against his chest.

"The Hales."

Sam turns the screen for the two of them. It's an article from a paper titled _Beacon Hills Tribune_ dated several years back. It shows a black and white picture of a burned up house. The headline reads 'Eight killed in tragic family home fire'.

"Damn," Dean curses again, squinting at it.

"The Hales are all dead then?" Castiel asks, squinting much the same as Dean.

"Not quite," Sam says. "There were three survivors."

"We can go to them," Cas says confidently.

"Not _quite_ ," Sam says again. "One of them," he pauses to pull up another window, "a Laura Hale, was killed about a year and a half ago."

"But the other two?" Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head. "I can't find anything on them that's recent. One of them, Peter, was badly burned and in a coma, but according to this woke up only to go missing for a while over a year ago. In fact...right around the same time Laura was murdered."

"And the third one?"

"Derek," Sam says. "He's been arrested, but never charged with anything a few times. That's all I got."

"So he's the one who killed Laura and made Peter "disappear"?" Dean says.

"Maybe," Sam says. "Think the Hales being dead has anything to do with everyone the Jessops know being dead?"

"Maybe," Dean replies.

"The Hales do not seem like a good option," Castiel states solemnly.

"You said it, Cas," Dean sighs, bouncing Emma as he walks over to grab a burp cloth.

"So are we still going then?" Sam asks. "To find the Hales that are left?"

"Yeah. We'll see what's up," Dean says. "Then we'll decide if she stays with them or not."

"Right," Sam agrees. "I'm going to do a dinner run."

"Get pie," Dean calls over his shoulder, Emma on the opposite one.

"I know," Sam says with a monumental eye roll.

"Hey, don't sass me," Dean snaps, half-serious.

"Cas, want anything?" Sam says, ignoring his brother.

"I am fine, thank you, Sam," Cas replies.

"All right. Back in a few."

Sam shuts the door quietly behind him, which Dean appreciates even though Emma's not quite ready for sleep yet. She burps three times and, satisfied, Dean lays her down in the crib.

She's staring up at him almost expectantly and Dean hesitates a moment before hiding his face and then calling "peekaboo" when he reveals it. She seems to enjoy it, even if she hasn't learned smiling just yet. Dean grins, pleased, then goes back over to the bed to sink down onto it.

"You're very good with her," Castiel comments suddenly and Dean jerks in surprise. He had sort of forgotten the angel was there, too absorbed with remembering how to care for a baby to mind anyone else.

"Uh. Yeah. I guess," Dean says, glancing away.

"You like children," Cas states.

"Is there a point here, Cas?" Dean asks irritably.

"No. I just—" Cas shakes his head. "No. There's no point. I—I'll be back."

The next thing Dean knows the space where Cas had stood is empty and it's just he and Emma.

"Okay, then," Dean says for lack of anything better to say. He has no idea what that was about.

 

On the other side of the world in the middling hours of the afternoon an angel in a trenchcoat sits invisible in a park and observes the parents playing with their children.

He studies them, wondering what it is that a good parent possesses that makes them a _good_ _parent_. What it is that Dean possesses that makes him the same in spite of the fact he has no children of his own.

He stays there for long hours and watches dozens of families, but still he doesn't know the answer when he finally returns to a darkened motel room in America.

 

In a high school hallway the following day a teen boy's heart is slowly imploding.

"I just want to know who I am," Malia says. "You understand, right?"

"Oh, right. Yeah, yeah, I understand," Stiles rambles. "Sure, I understand completely."

It doesn't mean he _likes_ it.

"Stiles, you're still the best friend I've ever had. I just—I just need to know who I am...on my own. You know, without y—"

"Yeah, without me. I get the picture."

Figures. The first real relationship Stiles has ever had and it gets ended because she needs to _find_ herself.

Not that Stiles isn't one hundred percent in support of Malia discovering who she is outside of her past and her family, but...does it really have to be outside of Stiles, too?

Stiles guesses that, yeah. Yeah, it does. You can't really know who you are if you're constantly one half of a whole. You've got to be your own whole first.

It still sucks for Stiles though.

Stiles smiles sadly at her. She looks guilty and he doesn't want her to feel so bad about this. "Malia, I'll be fine," he assures her. "We're still friends, yeah?"

"Yes," Malia is quick to say. "Yes, of course."

"Good. That's all I need. Just don't cut me out completely, okay?"

"I would never do that, Stiles," Malia says sincerely.

"I know you wouldn't." Changing the topic Stiles asks, "Heard from Braeden lately?"

Malia shakes her head. "She contacted me about two weeks ago. She thought she was close to finding her in El Paso, but lost the trail again."

"Sucks," Stiles says to which Malia nods.

Stiles has been trying to help Malia on the mom front as much as he can from within the boundaries of his bedroom, but to be honest The Desert Wolf is one elusive lady. They haven't had much luck all around.

Braeden had caught wind of her just weeks after the showdown in Mexico. She had left to chase her with a heavy heart in regard to Derek, which, while he didn't show it, had to have hurt the guy too. Braeden was the first relatively healthy relationship Derek's ever had, but she left him to chase after her white whale. Scott had had everyone over to Derek's apartment for pizza in an attempt to cheer him up afterward. No one could tell if it had worked or not.

It's been over a month since then and Braeden has been playing tag with Malia's mother all this time. She keeps in touch with Malia out of kindness, but she doesn't really talk to anybody else too much. Stiles supposes that's just the way of a mercenary. Maybe if she ever catches The Desert Wolf, she'll come back and settle down with Derek after all. But then again maybe not. Either way, Stiles hopes Derek can find a great relationship that lasts. The dude deserves better than that after all he's been through.

"I'll...I'll see you later, Stiles," Malia says, still looking remorseful.

"Yeah. See you later," Stiles replies, although he knows he'll want some space for a while and will avoid seeing her.

Stiles watches Malia walk away, sighing heavily once she's gone. Lydia is beside him in the next instant.

"She broke it off, huh?"

"Yeah…"

"Sucks."

"Yeah."

"Come here," Lydia says, opening her arms.

Stiles falls into them and buries his face in her shoulder, stooping to reach.

"Alcohol?" she offers.

"God, yes," Stiles groans.

Lydia pats his back. "Come on then. We're going to my house."

 

"We 'bout ready to head out?"

Castiel nods, but Sam remains glued to his computer.

"Sammy?" Dean asks.

"Dean," Sam says, aghast. "This town we're going to? It's a nightmare."

Dean frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean murder and mayhem. Listen to this: Right after Laura Hale was murdered, six more people were murdered by a woman named Kate Argent, who was also responsible for Laura's murder supposedly. They never got any real answers because Kate killed herself, when she got pegged for the murders _as well as_ the eight Hale murders from the fire she orchestrated seven years ago—that was _her_. Then not even a month later a teenager named Matt Daehler murders six people out of revenge apparently and then four county deputies before drowning mysteriously outside the Sheriff's station. Then one summer later, two teens who had been missing for months turn up, one dead and one who dies less than a month later. _Plus_ a series of murders believed to be _ritual sacrifices_ start up around the same time. Twelve people died, Dean. And the suspected mastermind behind it just disappeared. Then—again, less than a month later—there are reports of, get this, men wearing Japanese oni masks running around town and attacking people with swords. Then a teenage girl—the niece of Kate Argent, which I doubt is a coincidence—is killed by a sword wound and there is a _massacre_ at the local hospital as well as an attack at the Sheriff's station by these masked swordsmen. Then two months later over a dozen people are murdered by _professional_ _assassins_ , like several _different_ assassins, with no apparent reason as to why there would be hits on these people who seemed perfectly normal even after they died."

Sam ends his rant with a sigh. "Dean...this place…"

"How have we not heard of it before?" Dean asks, already knowing what his brother is thinking.

Sam shakes his head. "I think...I think this may all just be...people, Dean."

"Or not."

Sam shrugs. "I guess there's really only one way to find out."

Dean nods. "Onward, then."

 

Emma starts crying from the back seat about an hour into their renewed journey. She had done really well the day prior, but Dean suspects she had been overstimulated by all the—well, you know.

Today they are not so lucky.

"Cas, there's a bottle in the diaper bag. It should still be warm enough. That's probably what she wants," Dean says.

"I…" Cas begins, looking down at Emma for all the world like she's a slime monster.

Dean sighs. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, I got it," Sam says. He reaches back with his long limbs and finds the bottle. When he pulls it to the front of the cab to deposit in his lap, Dean touches it with the back of a hand briefly and nods, approving the temperature. Sam then goes to unbuckle Emma and Dean promptly freaks the fuck out.

"What are you _doing?_ " he demands when he sees him.

Sam pauses. "I'm...getting her out of the carrier so I can feed her?"

"You don't unbuckle a baby while you're in a moving car!" Dean shouts. "What is wrong with you!"

"I—nothing. What did you want me to do, Dean?"

"Get back there with her," Dean says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Dean," Sam says, exasperated. "I am not going to fit back there with Cas and Emma."

"I have faith in you, Goliath."

"Dean," Sam protests.

"Oh, all right, for the love of—"

Dean pulls over on the side of the road, puts the car in park, and kills the engine.

"There. Go," he says, gesturing in a "get on with it motion."

Sam sighs, but reaches back to undo Emma's buckles, then gently, carefully brings her around to rest in his arms.

There's a tense silence filling up the Impala while Emma sucks away on her meal.

Eventually, Castiel says, "I apologize for not being versed in child care."

"It's not your fault, Cas. I mean why would you know?"

"But you asked—"

"I know. And I shouldn't have asked you _or_ this doofus over here. _Apparently_ I'm the only one who can take care of a baby. _Jesus_."

Sam throws Dean a patented bitch face, but doesn't comment.

 

"Stiles, I'm not letting you drive home."

"So I'll jus' stay here," Stiles says with a careless shrug.

"No," Lydia says.

"Why not?"

"Because—" Lydia stops herself, redirects. "Because I said so. Now call somebody to come pick you up."

"Who'm I gonna call, my _dad?_ " Stiles slurs. "He's tha Share-riff, Lydia. I can't call him. 'm underaged. And sloshed."

"Yes. Very."

"Why do I have to leave, Lydia?" Stiles whines. "Why can't I stay h're?"

"Go home, Stiles."

"Lydi-aaaaah," Stiles cries.

"Stiles."

"I don' wanna go."

"You have to."

"Why?"

"Because Parrish is coming over, all right? And I don't want him arresting you for being drunk either."

Stiles sobers slightly at that. "Parrish is coming over. To your house?"

"No, Stiles, to my ski resort," Lydia snipes. "Yes, to my house. So you have to leave before he gets here."

Stiles grins and teases. "You jus' wanna be alone with him, Lyds, don' think I don' see that."

"It's not like that," Lydia says quickly. "I'm helping him go through the bestiary, remember?"

"Well, yeah, but like...why y' gotta do it at yer house all alone and stuff?"

"Because it's more comfortable here than at the station and we won't have to explain away anything if someone sees the bestiary or overhears us. Plus, Jordan doesn't have to worry about being on duty."

Stiles grins like a Cheshire cat. "Jordan? Since when is he _Jordan?_ "

Lydia huffs. "Stiles. I really am about to call your father if you don't pick someone else to call."

"No, no, no, no, no. Don' call m'dad. I got this." Stiles pulls out his phone and then proceeds to stare at it.

"Well?" Lydia prompts.

"Scott and Kira are on a date…" Stiles says, looking like he's thinking _real_ hard. "And Liam and Mason are like babies, who can't drive. And I'm _not_ calling Malia."

"She can't drive anyways, Stiles."

"Oh, right, right...so...who's that leave...who's...oh! Derek! I'll call Derek. Derek's old, he can drive."

"Yes, Stiles. Derek can drive," Lydia says with an eye roll. She presses a hand to her temple and mutters, "You're lucky I love like you were my own brother, Stiles."

"I love you, too, Lydia!" Stiles says happily as the phone rings in his ear. "But not like—like I used to. But like...like...not a brother, 'cause you're a girl…"

"Like a sister?" Lydia supplies.

"Yes!" Stiles says excitedly, pointing at her. "That's it! A sister! I love you like a sister!"

"Stiles, I'm sorry to say I don't feel the same way about you," Derek's dry voice comes from the phone. "Thank you for telling me how you really feel about me though."

"Derek!" Stiles chirps into the receiver. "Derek, you're not my sister."

"No. I'm not."

"Lydia is my sister. Tha's who I was talking to."

"You're with Lydia right now?" Derek says, trying to gather where Stiles is and why he's clearly drunk off his ass.

"Yep. She's like practically my sister and she was making me feel better b'cause, b'cause Malia dumped my stupid ass."

Lydia interjects, "Stiles, you're not stupid."

" _Sure_ , Lydia," Stiles says sighing. "That's what _you_ think. But _Derek_ thinks I'm stupid, don't you, Derek?"

"I don't think you're stupid, Stiles."

Stiles perks up at the news. "Really?"

"I think you do stupid things sometimes. But you're not stupid. Now why did you call me?"

"Because...because your cousin broke up with me," Stiles says. That sounds right. Right?

"I'm sorry Malia broke up with you, Stiles. I don't know what you want me to do about it."

Stiles matter-of-factly replies, "I dunno either."

"For the love of—Stiles, give me the damn phone," Lydia says, reaching for it.

"No. No! 's my phone," Stiles protests, making an attempt at keeping it away from the redhead. He's far too drunk to succeed at it though.

Lydia huffs at him again, like he's a being a burden, though truthfully Stiles stopped being a burden to her the moment she actually stopped to talk to him. Her irritation is all good-natured and rooted deeply in fondness nowadays.

She presses the phone to her ear and says sharply, "Derek. Come to my house and get his drunk ass out of here. Now."

"Why do I have to do it?" Derek quite reasonably asks.

"Because you're the only one with nothing better to do on a Friday night. Now get over here."

And with that Lydia hangs up.

She looks over at Stiles and sighs. The boy is practically hanging upside down off of her bed.

"Stiles, sit up."

"No," he pouts.

"Fine," she says and tips his ankle up so that he slides right off.

He lands in an awkward heap on the floor, squawking in outrage.

"I coulda broken my neck!"

"Please. You're so relaxed right now you'd come out of a car crash with a brick wall with no broken bones."

Stiles giggles. "Tha's true."

"Derek will be here shortly if he knows what's good for him," Lydia says. "Try not to embarrass yourself until then, hm?"

"You'd love me even if I did," Stiles says, dopey grin glued to his face.

Lydia smiles warmly down at him. "Yes, I would."

"Yay," Stiles chirps looking like he's about to start dozing off now that he's horizontal. He starts humming an off-key Star Wars medley instead, one that has Lydia massaging her fingertips into her temples.

Oh well, she supposes. It's her fault she let him get this drunk. He seemed like he needed it though.

Derek arrives, scowl firmly pinched into place.

Lydia gives him an unimpressed look. "I'm sorry, _did_ you have something better to do?" she asks, not sorry at all.

Derek glares at her, but answers with a curt, "No."

"Good. Now, please. Get him home and off my hands."

"Why couldn't you just take him?" Derek wants to know.

Stiles grins from his place on the floor and crows, "She's got a date with Paaarr-iiish!"

"It is not a date!" Lydia snaps. "Derek, get him off of my floor now before I have to explain a dead body to Jordan when he gets here."

"You called him Jordan again!" Stiles teases.

Lydia frowns down at him disapprovingly.

Derek looms over him and asks, "Can you stand?"

"Prob'bly not," Stiles answers proudly.

Derek rolls his eyes in a long-suffering manner, then stoops to pick him up. He tosses him easily over one shoulder and Stiles groans at the sudden movement.

"Stiles, if you throw up on me, I will kill you and bring your body to the Sheriff myself, and he will understand why I did it."

"Don't worry," Lydia says. "I've been told he's not a puker. Good night, Derek. Night, Stiles. Drink water."

"Night, Lydia! I love and adore you!"

"I know," Lydia says, smirking and shuts the door on them.

Stiles gasps loudly, gesticulating wildly over Derek's back. "Derek. Derek," he demands. "She just Han Solo'd me."

"Yes, Stiles. I heard. Where are your keys?" Derek asks, approaching the Jeep.

"Where's your car? Did you werewolf run here?" Stiles asks, completely ignoring the question.

Too bad for Stiles that Derek is a master at _that_ game. "Where are your keys?"

"I dunno," Stiles says, attempting to shrug, which is difficult, when one is upside down, to say the least.

Derek sighs and drops Stiles against the Jeep, using the vehicle and a hand under his arm to prop him up. He sifts through Stiles' various pockets one handed, causing the teen to giggle like a child.

"Stop," Derek says.

"It tickles," Stiles informs him.

Derek finally locates the keys and unlocks the Jeep, unceremoniously shoving Stiles through the open door. He waits to see if Stiles can get in by himself and when he can't, lifts him into the seat and shuts the door behind him after checking for stray limbs.

"D'r'k," Stiles moans into the center console, where his face his mashed against it.

"What."

Whatever comes out of Stiles' mouth is a mishmash of sounds that even a werewolf's ears can't interpret.

"Stiles, sit up," Derek says irritably,slipping a hand under Stiles' forehead and tossing him backwards.

Stiles hits the window with a soft thump and slides down it until his knees are jammed up against the dashboard, effectively stopping him.

"D'r'k."

" _What_."

"Olive you too…" Stiles slurs.

"What?" Derek asks. What the hell does that mean?

"Olive you _too_ ," Stiles insists. "Olive Scott. And olive Kira. And-and olive'd Malia, but she still…"

Oh. Not _olive_. Stiles is saying "I love" in inebriated.

 _Oh_.

Derek glances over at him, but the teen is staring at the radio like it might hold some significant answers to all of life's problems. He clearly doesn't know what he's talking about. The werewolf sighs quietly.

"Olive everybody," Stiles says sadly. "But nobody ever loves me back…"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Stiles, you know that's a lie. You _don't_ love everybody and Scott and Lydia both love you like a brother."

"Yeah, but...but...I think Malia kind of always loved me more like...more like a brother too...But a brother you kiss and stuff. But like not weird."

Derek grimaces. "Please stop talking. Why am I even having this conversation with you?"

"B'cause you're nice," Stiles answers unhesitatingly. "You try 'n' pretend you're not, but y' are."

Derek doesn't have anything to say to that.

They get to the Stilinski residence and the Sheriff's cruiser is in the drive. Derek briefly weighs the pros and cons of just taking Stiles up through the window, but figures the Sheriff would notice the Jeep and the distinct lack of front door usage and would figure it out anyway.

So he goes around to Stiles' side and catches him when he practically falls out of the opening door. Derek scoops him up bridal style and walks up to the front door and knocks.

He immediately sees the error of his ways when the Sheriff opens the door and turns stricken.

"He's fine," Derek rushes to assure him. "He's fine, no one's hurt."

The Sheriff relaxes and then steps back to allow Derek passage. "What's wrong with him then?"

Stiles' bleary attention is drawn by the sound of his father's voice and he flails when he sees him.

"Der'k! Der'k! Tha's my _dad_ , why's m'dad here?"

Derek only stares down at the teen.

"Because I live here," Jonathan snaps. "Stiles, are you _drunk?_ "

"Noooo," Stiles whines pitifully, hiding his face in Derek's chest.

Sheriff Stilinski looks up at Derek for a better answer than that.

"Yes," Derek says, then explains, "Malia dumped him."

The hard edges fall away from the Sheriff's face. "Oh, son...I'm sorry. I know you really liked her."

"Olive'd her," Stiles mumbles into Derek's shirt.

The Sheriff is ostensibly more fluent in drunken-Stiles-speak than Derek and he understands what he said without pause. "I'm sorry, Stiles." The Sheriff places a hand on his son's head, stroking his hair. "You always love with your whole heart, don't you, son?"

"Yeah," Stiles mutters miserably.

Derek feels his own heart clench at those words, though why, he'll never admit.

The Sheriff sighs. "I guess I'll let this one slide, since there's really no real cure for a broken-heart. He was with you?"

Sheriff Stilinski looks at Derek with a raised brow and Derek realizes there would be severe consequences if Stiles had been drinking with him.

"No, sir," Derek says. "I don't really drink. I just picked him up, since he couldn't drive."

"Where was he then?" the Sheriff asks. Interrogates is more like it.

"I think maybe Stiles should answer that question himself," Derek says resolutely.

"My sister!" Stiles moans. "I was with my sister and _she_ loves me!"

The Sheriff frowns at that, then seems to put it together. "Lydia," he says to himself. "All right. I just wanted to know. Get him upstairs, will you, Derek? I'll get him some water."

"Yes, sir," Derek says.

"Cut that 'sir' crap out, Derek. You're not a suspect," the Sheriff says, waving him off.

Derek stoically doesn't wince at the reminder that he _had_ been before. He and the Sheriff have come a very long way in their relationship. "Okay."

Derek gets Stiles onto his bed, the teen flung across it like a limp noodle. He coaxes Stiles' shoes off his feet, pulling the socks off too because he knows Stiles sleeps barefoot.

The Sheriff appears with two bottles of water in his hand and what smells like aspirin in the other. "Can you wrestle him out of his jeans too?" he asks of Derek.

Derek swallows, but nods, not exactly keen on the idea for several reasons. Stiles is laid out flat so it's pretty simple to yank the pants right off, werewolf strength aside. Stiles grumbles at the rough treatment; Derek maybe yanks a little harder than is strictly necessary.

"Quit your whining," Jonathan says. "Derek's being nice enough to help your sorry ass. Derek, sit him up, will you?"

Derek pulls Stiles up by a fistful of t-shirt and holds him there, while Stiles' head lolls back. The Sheriff looks at him kind of funny.

Derek shrugs, unremorseful.

Jonathan just goes with it and offers a bottle of water and the pills to Stiles. Stiles babbles incoherently, but drinks a whole bottle and swallows the pills too.

"There," Sheriff Stilinski says, setting the other bottle on the nightstand. Derek takes his cue to lower Stiles back down, gently this time. "Think we should get the hoodie off, too?"

"Not worth it," Derek says, shaking his head once.

"Agreed. All right, let's get the covers over him and call it a night."

Each taking a side the two men drag the covers down beneath Stiles' dead weight and pull them back over him.

The Sheriff runs a hand over his son's forehead once before jerking his head toward the door. Derek heads out first, then Jonathan, shutting the door behind him quietly. Stiles is mumbling to himself, but he seems well on his way to sleep.

"Hopefully he'll sleep that off," Sheriff Stilinski says, leading the way down the stairs. He shakes his head sadly, "He's too young for that kind of heartbreak."

"Yes," Derek agrees. "But it's Stiles."

"Yeah," the Sheriff says with a sigh. "Join me for a beer? Or something else?"

"Beer is fine. Thank you," Derek says, following him to the kitchen.

The Sheriff opens two and passes one to Derek as they both take a seat at the table. "You said you're not much of a drinker?" he asks, curious, Derek's actions at odds with his words.

"Werewolves don't feel alcohol. I don't keep it around, but I'm not opposed to having a drink."

"I thought it might be something like that. Huh," Jonathan says, tipping his back. "Not much point to it for you then, is there?"

Derek shrugs, both hands on his bottle. "There's something to the tradition of it."

"Here, here," Jonathan says, tilting his bottle toward Derek. He sighs again. "Thank you for bringing him home."

"It was no trouble, Sheriff."

Sheriff Stilinski raises an eyebrow.

"A little trouble," Derek amends. "But Lydia insisted. I hear you don't say no to Lydia Martin."

"I hear that, too."

They finish their beers, chatting idly about nothing in particular. The Sheriff walks Derek to the door and noticing the distinct lack of car asks if he needs a ride. Derek smirks at him and says he'll be all right.

It's with a clap on the shoulder and another thank you that the Sheriff sees him off. Watching Derek disappear into the shadows Jonathan can't help but think that they're all pretty lucky to still have Derek around.

 

They're roughly four hours away from Beacon Hills when they stop at a motel for the night. Normally they would just keep on driving, get in a little late, and crash for the night. But with a baby in tow they have to be more careful with sleep schedules and rest, so they stop at a decent hour and Dean lays Emma down on the bed (on a baby blanket, are you kidding?) for some mentally stimulating activity of some sort—she's not going down for another nap and Dean's got to do _something_ with her or she'll probably start crying again.

Sam does some more research, finds out another Argent—the mother of the niece—is dead by "suicide" and yet again wonders what exactly is going on in the town of Beacon Hills.

He heads out to pick up dinner when Dean makes him (he'd stay glued to his computer otherwise) and Dean settles on the bed with Emma in lap and leaned against his chest, tired after a long game of "jangly car keys."

"Wish I had a book or something," he comments as he grasps Emma's chubby little hands and wiggles her arms around gently.

"What do you need a book for?" Castiel asks. He's sitting in a chair at the table, ignoring Sam's materials in favor of watching Dean and Emma as he has creepily been doing for the last thirty minutes.

"To read to her," Dean answers. "A kid book, y'know. With the thick pages and the big pictures and stuff. It's supposed to be good for babies or whatever."

The next thing Dean knows there's a brightly colored book with a loopy giraffe on it being shoved under his nose.

"Is this suitable?" Cas is asking.

"What—when did—where did you get this? Did you _take_ this? You don't steal kid's books, Cas. That's just not right."

"I borrowed it from a library," Cas says. "I'll return it when you're done with it."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Borrowing without permission is pretty much the same as stealing, Cas," he mutters, but takes the book nonetheless. The title reads "Giraffes Can't Dance" and yeah, it seems "suitable."

"Thanks," Dean offers, then opens up the book in front of Emma's nose, placing his other hand on her chest to keep her upright and secure between his palm and stomach.

Cas continues to stand there beside the bed, looming over them and watching Dean intently.

"Cas."

"Yes, Dean?"

"Can you not…" Dean makes a jumbled gesture with the hand holding the book. "Why are you standing there?"

"I wish to observe," comes the reply.

"Okay. That's fine. Just...I don't know, just—" Dean looks to his other side momentarily and then nods his head in that direction. "Just come sit on the other side of me. The looming thing is making me nervous."

Cas does as he's told and takes up a place beside Dean on the bed. He's too close, per usual, and his hip gently presses into Dean's, while his shoulder and arm intrusively layer over Dean's back.

Dean knows Cas has no earthly (ha!) idea how to sit and share space with someone like a normal person so he takes it upon himself, per usual, to instruct him.

"Put this arm back here," Dean says, bracing Emma with the book-hand and using his freed-up one to nudge Cas' arm back behind him.

The angel follows his lead and his position shifts into something much more comfortable as he leans back on his hand slightly and no longer covers Dean like a wet blanket.

"There we go," Dean says, satisfied. "All right. Are you ready for some grade-A entertainment?"

Castiel gives him a confused look.

"Humor me, Cas," Dean says.

Cas squints at him further, but cautiously says, "Yes…?" in turn.

"Awesome. Let's read about some non-dancing giraffes."

Dean holds the book close in front of Emma's as he reads to her so she can see clearly—babies are born nearsighted, don't ask him how he knows that. He holds one arm wrapped around her, keeping her steady, and answers every burble and grunt she makes with enthusiastic replies. He narrates animatedly as he reads from the little page-boards. It surprises Castiel. The angel hadn't thought Dean Winchester was one for childish theatrics like this.

Then again Cas has been seeing all kinds of different aspects of Dean since they acquired their infant companion.

The book concludes and Dean shuts it and makes excited noises at Emma, bending and twisting to put his face in front of her face so she looks at it. The child is still young and not yet entirely able to track movements, though she seems more alert each day.

When Cas comments on this, Dean says, "She's three months old. She can't do much yet. But she will soon. She'll start smiling and giggling and talking at us." This last bit is said mainly to Emma herself in a playful tone of voice.

Cas looks on, curious as ever.

Dean catches him studying them and defensively asks, "What?"

"How do you…" Cas begins, but trails off, ostensibly at a loss for words.

"How do you...what?" Dean asks, eyebrow raised.

"How do you...become...a suitable caretaker for children?" Castiel finally settles on.

"What?" Dean asks, frowning. "Like...board certification or…?"

"No. Like you are."

Dean blinks, taken aback. "Like—like _me?_ " The man takes a moment to mull over Castiel's question and run it through the angel-to-American-English translator. "Oh. You meant, "how do you get to be good with kids"."

"Yes. That is what I meant."

Dean shrugs, wiggling Emma's arms rhythmically again. "Practice, I guess. I mean, some people might just be naturals, but most of the stuff you just pick up as you go. You learn by doing. I learned because I had to. I took care of Sammy practically since day one. I guess I got pretty good at it. For a hunter's definition of parenting anyway."

"You _are_ good at it," Castiel insists. "I watched many parents in the park yesterday and you display many of their attributes. The child in your care has not suffered or died . You are clearly suited to this."

Dean gives him a look two parts puzzlement and one part weirded out. "When the hell did you go off and watch people at the park? You were with us all day. Parks close when the sun goes down."

"I visited a country on the opposite side of the globe. The sun was still up there. It was not a problem."

Dean scoffs. "Creep much, Cas?"

Cas frowns that confused frown and Dean waves it away. "It's nothing. Anyway. I'm not "suited" to taking care of kids or whatever it is you're trying to imply. It takes a lot more than just keeping a kid alive and well to be a good parent or guardian or whatever."

"But you possess those qualities as well, Dean. I don't know why you're trying to argue with me."

Dean shakes his head. "I'm not arguing, Cas. Why are you asking about all this in the first place?"

"I am interested," Castiel informs him. "I know very little about human children. There are no angel children."

"That makes sense. You just kinda, sorta spring into existence as fully developed wavelengths of intent, right?"

"Yes."

"Huh." Dean looks down at Emma, gauging how much she's enjoying being made to wiggle around. She doesn't seem ecstatic or anything, but she's certainly not upset by it. He thinks for a minute. Out of nowhere he asks, "You wanna try?"

"Try...what…?" Cas asks, guarded, like Dean asked him to try swallowing swords.

"Try...caretaking," Dean says, trying to find his point. "You know. Take care of a baby. You wanna feed her? She'll be ready for another bottle soon."

"I…" Cas has never looked so much like a frightened animal, and that's saying something, since his default expressions, when it comes to "new human things," are confusion, consternation, and downright terror.

"Here, it's easy, I promise," Dean says, passing Emma over.

He sets the infant down in Castiel's lap, right in between his bent legs. Cas jerks back like Dean just handed him a live cobra.

"Relax, Cas. Look, you just…" Here Dean takes one of Castiel's wrists and guides  the hand it's attached to over to Emma's head. "...just hold her up. Just like that. There. See? Easy."

Cas stares down at his hand supporting the child's head and back as if it no longer belongs to him and it just rebelled and walked off on its own.

"This is...caring," Castiel says uncertainly.

"Yeah. You're just spending some time with her, keeping her upright until she can do it herself, talking to her."

"Talking...to her…"

Dean snorts. "Yes, Cas, talking to the baby. They're people, too."

"But they cannot talk back."

"Doesn't mean they don't like being talked to. Come on, try. Here, put her on her back."

Dean reaches over to pick Emma up and put her down facing Cas. The little girl looks up at him with bright eyes and a head-tilt. Dean almost loses it when he looks up to see Cas staring down at her with the exact same head-tilt.

He smothers his laughter behind a hand, then pats Castiel on the back. Clearing his throat he says, "Go on. Talk to her."

"What do I say?"

"Whatever you want. Just, you know. Appropriate for a baby."

"What is appropriate for a baby?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Just stay away from sex and violence and you'll be good, okay? Okay."

Dean gives him a final clap on the shoulder and then sets in to watch.

Castiel stares at Emma for a long moment before finally saying, "Hello."

Then there's silence.

"That's it?" Dean queries. "Cas, c'mon, just talk to the kid."

"Okay. How are you?" Cas tries.

"No—Okay. Watch," Dean says.

He demonstrates. "Hey, Emma. How was that book? Pretty awesome, huh? Maybe I'll read it to you again later. That'd be pretty fun." Dean says it with a smile and Emma's eyes focus on him, even after he stops talking to her.

"And there you go," Dean says, straightening up. "Parenting 101 àlà Winchester."

"So you just talk about...anything…" Cas says looking down at Emma the way one might look down at the sky as they're about to jump off a plane.

"Yeah. She can't understand anyway and babies just like to hear other people's voices. It's interesting to them and they learn to talk by mimicking it."

"Right. Okay. I can do this," the angel says seriously.

Dean kind of wishes he were recording this.

"Hello, Emma," Cas says, voice as deep as ever. "I'm Castiel. An Angel of the Lord. I have been watching you for the past two days and you seem like a very nice baby."

Dean face-palms.

Cas looks at him in alarm. "What? Was that wrong?"

"No, no. It was perfect," Dean says, leaving the hand up there to cover his face so Cas doesn't see his laughter.

A futile effort apparently, since Cas peers at him and says accusingly, "You're laughing at me."

"Just a little bit, yeah," Deans says, lowering his hand, grin in place and twinkle in his eye.

Castiel scowls deeply at him, but then an unusual noise draws their attention downward.

Emma is looking up at Cas' grumpy face and she's—she's smiling.

"Hey, Cas, look at that!" Dean says excitedly. "She's smiling at you!"

Emma makes the noise again, which they now conclude is the beginnings of a laugh.

"What did I do?" Cas asks, staring down in wonder.

"I think she liked your pouty face," Dean says, grinning.

"My—what?" Cas says. "I do not have a "pouty face"."

"Yeah, ya do," Dean says, looking at Emma. "Hey, do it again."

"What?"

"Frown. C'mon."

"Dean, I don't understand—"

"She likes it, Cas, c'mon. Make the face," Dean says, nudging him with an elbow.

Castiel sighs, long-suffering, but looks down and "makes the face" at Emma all the same.

She makes her little laughing noise again and smiles anew.

Dean jostles Cas' shoulder giddily. "Look, look, look! She can smile now! How frickin' cool is that!"

"Very?" Castiel offers.

The hunter bats him on the chest. "It _is_ , Cas. Babies have to learn to smile. It's not something humans are born knowing how to do."

"Oh…" Cas says, the realization setting in. When it finally hits him—that _he_ aided a child in a developmental step, _he_ did, him, Castiel—he smiles too.

It's small, sure, Dean has never seen Castiel full-out grin, but it's there. Mirrorring Emma's happy little baby grin. It's the first one Dean has seen on the angel's face since before Purgatory.

Dean can't help but kind of like the sight of its return.

 

When the time for another feeding comes, Dean manages to set Castiel up and let him have at it. Cas sort of looks like he's holding a bomb, but he does all right under Dean's watchful eye.

When it's time for a diaper change, Dean more than gladly shows Cas how to do that, too. Under Dean's fine tutelage the angel manages to get a clean diaper secured on a dry bottom and he looks down at his handiwork, glowing with pride when Dean compliments him.

"Good work, Cas. A real stand-up job." Then Dean claps him on the shoulder and says, "You're on diaper duty from now on."

Castiel is suddenly painfully aware that he's been played.

 

Cas decides he likes the feeling of holding a baby. It's rather fascinating having a little life in your hands like that. Sure, as a celestial wavelength Castiel could hold a whole _city_ in one hand, but in a human vessel, he's never experienced anything like it.

It's nice. Emma's warm, little weight in his palm feels like a reassurance, though of what, he's not sure.

He doesn't even mind diaper duty. He's dealt with much messier things in his time and he rather likes the sense of accomplishment he feels after he finishes the task.

He also rather likes the way Dean looks at him proudly every time he does it, but that's neither here nor there.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the real fun begins!

Driving into Beacon Hills is remarkably uneventful. Nothing outright jumps out and screams "evil" to them. The town is ordinary.

"I don't know," Dean says, when Sam comments on this. "Seems like an awful lot of bad stuff has been happening here for the place to be perfectly normal."

"Perhaps," Cas says, and when Dean glances back to look at him, the angel is concentrating on wiggling a finger at Emma in a pleasing manner, "appearances are not what they seem."

"What do you mean?" Dean asks.

"I mean there's...interference of some sort."

"Interference?" Sam asks. "Like how?"

"I am unable to discern the electromagnetic waves of this area."

Dean and Sam exchange similar curious expressions.

"What, you mean we've hit like a dead zone?" Dean asks.

"The opposite actually, I think," Castiel informs them.

"What does that mean?" Sam asks.

"It means…" Castiel pauses to choose the right words. "It means there are so many frequencies that overlap in this place, I can't pick out any one frequency to follow it."

"So what you're saying is...no supernatural radar here," Dean confirms. "Theoretically, no one will be able to track us here?"

Castiel finally glances at Dean in the mirror. "I don't think so, no."

Dean makes a considering face. "Awesome," he finally settles on.

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "This is good. We can stay here while we figure out a plan. Not have to worry about running."

Dean would reply, but he's too busy smiling as Emma does the same, when she bops Cas' finger with a hand excitedly.

Cas smiles, too.

 

"You're sure it's okay to leave the baby with Cas?" Sam asks for the umpteenth time as they climb out of the Impala.

They're in their suits and the Sheriff's station stands before them.

"Yes, Sam," Dean says. "Cas is actually getting pretty good with the whole childcare schtick."

"I still just worry he might do something...I don't know, something he thinks is appropriate for babies that yeah, maybe was _a few centuries_ _ago_."

"Stop worrying, Sammy. He's under strict instructions to only do what I told him to do."

"All right," Sam says as they enter the station. "If you say so."

He and Dean flash their badges at the front desk and are met with the weary deputy saying, "Again?" before letting them through. They are led directly to the Sheriff's personal office. They can see the man through the open blinds, stooped over a desk, in the basin of a valley of paperwork.

They enter with a knock and the man looks up at them, frowning. He sees the suits though and his expression changes to polite and professional immediately.

"Sheriff," Dean says, flashing a badge, "I'm Agent Page, this is Agent Plant, FBI. We'd like a moment of your time if that's okay."

"Of course," the Sheriff says. His face is worn; he seems like he's seen a lot over the years. "What about?"

"About the Hale house fire," Dean says.

"Oh?" the Sheriff says carefully. "That's an old case, one that got solved just last year. Why would you be asking about it?"

Sam steps in. "We believe we may be dealing with a copycat. Someone who might be trying to emulate Miss—Argent, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Kate Argent," Sheriff Stilinski says, face suddenly going serious. "You think someone is copying her? By burning houses full of people down?"

"It was an unsuccessful attempt," Sam assures him. "But a lot of things have been similar about the incidents."

"Where?"

"Massachusetts," Dean says without missing a beat. "We'd like to get as much information as we can and prevent whoever this is from striking again. And maybe succeeding this time."

"Yes, of course," the Sheriff says, mind clearly somewhere else. "I'll give you everything I have, answer any questions."

"We do have one question," Sam pipes up. "Derek Hale? We'd like to talk to him if we could."

The Sheriff pauses, eyes shrewd as he looks at them, which is odd to say the least. He had been very compliant a moment ago. What had changed?

"Yes. I can give you his information," he says finally. He sets a baby-faced deputy about the task, then looks to the Winchesters. "If you'll excuse me, I have a call I need to make. The deputy will take care of you."

"Much obliged, Sheriff," Dean says, sauntering out of the room.

While they wait for the deputy to get back to them, Dean spots another man in a suit emerging from an office.

"Oh, shit," he mutters, catching Sam's attention.

"What?"

"I think that's a real Fed."

Sam's lips purse as he carefully reins in any further reaction. "Shit," he mumbles. They should have known based on what the deputy at the front desk said, but they didn't think there would still be one _here_.

They hope not to be noticed, but no such luck. The man's eyes light on them and he glances down at their attire before looking back at their faces. He comes over.

Dean and Sam both paste on smiles and greet him.

"Hey, how ya doing?"

"Good afternoon."

" 'Afternoon," the man says and boy, is he tall. He could give Sam a run for his money. "You federal?" the real agent asks them.

"Yessir, just in town to get some files on a suspected copycat case," Dean says. "We'll be moving along pretty shortly."

"Huh," the man says. Then holds out a hand. "Rafael McCall."

"Dean Page, Sam Plant," Dean says, shaking his hand, Sam going next.

"What office are you out of?" Rafael asks, friendly enough.

"Boston," Sam says. "You?"

"San Francisco. It's funny. You think I would have gotten a call about you two coming in."

"Oh, no, we didn't think that was necessary," Dean says. "Too much trouble and our supervisor is out on paternity leave, besides. Don't want to have to call him, if you don't have to, you get me?"

"Sure," McCall says. "Still kind of strange though."

"Hey, you want to give him a call?" Dean asks. "Be my guest, but be prepared for one cranky phone call. Guy has twins. They never sleep at the same time."

"Yeah, I bet that's rough. Still. Kind of think I'd like to speak to him."

"Sure, sure," Dean says, fishing out his cell phone. "Your funeral."

"I'll take my chances."

Dean does not like the way this dude is looking at them. _Shit_. Sam shoots Dean a panicked look as Dean dials a number on his cell. Fingers crossed this works.

The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. It finally picks up and Dean thanks every deity he's ever met that the sound of Cas' phone ringing didn't agree with Emma.

The wailing can be heard even by Sam and Rafael. Sam winces theatrically and shrugs at the agent.

"Dean. What." Cas bites out.

"Hey, sorry to bother you sir, we just, uh, have an Agent McCall with the San Francisco office who wanted to speak with you."

"What?" Cas says, not picking up on the ploy. But that's all right. Dean figures this will go his way regardless.

Dean passes the phone over to Rafael.

"Sir," he says into the receiver, "this is Rafael McCall."

"Okay," Cas says irritably. "Can I help you with something?"

"I had wanted to ask about Agents Plant and Page coming to Beacon Hills."

"I have no idea what you're talking about and I don't care," Cas says. "You woke the baby. You are _not_ supposed to _wake_ the baby."

"Yessir, I'm sorry, sir, it was just—"

"Are we done with this pointless conversation? I have other things that need my attention."

"Yessir. Sorry, sir. Thank you for your time. Good-bye."

"Good. Bye."

Cas hangs up the phone angrily—a fact Dean and Sam can tell even from the other end of the line and at a distance. McCall actually flinches and then blinks several times as he passes the phone back to Dean.

"Tried to warn you. Sorry about that, man," Dean says sympathetically.

"Yeah. Uh. Well, let me know if you need any assistance while you're in town."

"Much obliged," Dean says.

"Thank you. Have a good afternoon," Sam calls after him.

The man walks away, looking distinctly rattled.

A chuckle sounds from behind them and they turn to see the Sheriff leaning in his doorway, the young deputy beside him with a grin on his face.

"Sir?" Dean asks.

"I have never seen that man look so unnerved in my life," the Sheriff says. "Thank you. I enjoyed that. You let me know if you need anything else."

"Ah, thank you, sir," Dean says as the Sheriff retreats into his office, still chuckling slightly.

They look to the deputy for an answer. They young man smiles, which just makes him look even more like a kid, and says, "Sheriff Stilinski and Agent McCall have a history outside of work. It's not always been a pleasant one."

"I see," Dean says, then thinks he's done extra-well by earning points with the Sheriff.

"Derek Hale's information," the deputy says.

"Thank you very much," Dean says, taking it.

The brothers bid farewell to the helpful deputy and then they're on their merry way.

 

Castiel is looking frazzled by the time the Winchesters return to the motel.

" _Dean_ ," he utters when he sees the man.

Emma is wailing the kind of wail that makes you worry about the windows breaking. Cas is cradling her, rocking her, bouncing her. Nothing seems to be working. The angel rushes over to the elder brother and desperately says, "I can't get her to stop. I'm sorry. I've tried everything, but the phone—I'm sorry."

"Cas, Cas, it's all right," Dean says clapping him on the shoulder. "I was counting on the phone upsetting her. Great job on that by the way."

"I do not understand why you made me to speak to that man," Castiel says angrily. "It disturbed the baby greatly."

"Yeah, sorry about that, I'll explain later. Here," Dean says, walking over to his duffel on one of the beds. He rummages around for a minute then comes up with a bottle of Jack Daniel's.

Sam, grimacing from the noise, sits on the opposite bed and asks, "What are you doing with whiskey?"

"It's an old trick. Used to work on you," Dean says. He pops the lid and then tips the bottle, holding his index finger over the opening so none spills out.

He paces over to Cas, who is _bereft_ at this point, and then offers the whiskey-soaked finger up to Emma. She doesn't take notice of it, too wrapped up in her tantrum, so Dean presses it against her lips until she gets a taste of it.

"There, there," he says. "It's all right. Isn't it?"

Emma quiets down and begins suckling on Dean's finger. When she's done, Dean retracts his hand and she's quiet and content.

Cas is gaping at the infant. He says, "I do not say this lightly: that might have been a miracle."

Dean laughs. "Nah, it's not miracle. Just a little trick."

"I can't believe it worked," Sam says. "I thought that was just an old wives' tale."

"It helps with teething or something, I think. It doesn't work for every baby," Dean says. "But according to Dad it worked for me and I know first hand it worked for you. Looks like she's a regular ole Winchester."

Sam's face falls and he doesn't respond. The silence catches Cas' attention and he looks up at the brothers.

"Dean…" Sam says.

"What?" Dean asks, clearly not having caught what he said.

"Dean," Sam says gently, "she's not a Winchester."

Finally, it sinks in and Dean's expression twitches from horrified to crestfallen to faking-a-smile in a matter of nanoseconds. Sam is just very well-acquainted with his brother's microexpressions.

"Of course not," Dean says, forced levity in his tone. "I was just saying. You know, if. But. Yeah. She's not. Of course. Gotta go wash my hands."

Dean goes into the bathroom to wash his hands. Ostensibly that's all there is to it. But Sam knows he's doing it so he doesn't have to face them for a minute; he could have just as easily used the sink in the kitchenette.

Castiel looks after Dean, a deep frown creasing his features. "He's upset," the angel states.

"He'll be fine, Cas," Sam says.

Castiel's gaze darts over to Sam, but he remains silent on any further matters.

 

Derek isn't expecting guests, so he's naturally wary when there's a pounding on his door, indicating that someone would like to come in. He hears four heartbeats and if he's not mistaken, one of them sounds like that of a child.

He opens the door with a certain level of anticipation. The smell of gunmetal is immediate and he steels himself for a fight. Yet upon sliding the door back farther to reveal one of the three men in suits before him to be holding a baby carrier, he falters.

"Derek Hale?" the one with clear green eyes asks. He seems authoritative in a way cops are. That's what he's assuming they are: cops or feds. The tall one with long hair is holding the carrier and seems almost uncomfortable with being here. The shortest one, sporting an odd trenchcoat, seems—well, Derek's sort of having a hard time getting a read on him. The only thing he can pick out outright is the smell of stormclouds clinging to him that would indicate he's not necessarily human. It doesn't make Derek any less wary.

"Yes?" Derek says, eyebrow raised.

"We're Agents Page, Plant, and Jones with the FBI," the man informs him.

That's probably not good and Derek tenses, ready for anything.

He's not expecting the seemingly innocuous question that comes next.

"Are you familiar with anyone by the name of Tara Jessop?"

Derek frowns. He glances at the baby. He's pretty sure he would remember the name of woman he might have gotten pregnant. Plus the child looks very small and is probably no more than a few months old and, considering twelve months ago would have been the period Derek spent doing little more than worrying about the Alpha Pack and looking for Erica and Boyd, he's pretty sure the kid isn't his.

"I don't think so," he tells them. "I have to admit...I have no idea what this could be about."

"Mind if we come in?" the agent asks.

"Sure," Derek says cautiously. He steps back and allows them to file in. He leaves the door open in case he needs to make a quick escape through it shortly. "Now what is this about exactly?"

"Tara Jessop died in a car accident recently," the one doing all the talking continues. "She left behind a daughter," he indicates the baby with his chin, "and we believe you might be the next of kin."

Derek can't help it when his mouth falls open in disbelief. "Me? But I...I don't have any family left."

"We're not sure yet about the legitimacy of that assumption, but Ms. Jessop's dying breath was used to tell us to take her daughter to the Hale family."

Derek pauses, eyeing the man critically. "I'm sure you're aware there's not much left of the Hale family, then," he says.

"We are."

"Why is the FBI handling a child custody case?" Derek asks suddenly. "Or a car accident?"

The man exchanges a look with the tallest of their trio, the one still holding the carrier. Then he tells Derek, "We believe it might not have been an accident at all."

Now _that's_ sounding more Derek's speed. Derek's eyebrows rise. "You believe this woman was murdered? This woman I've never met, who wanted to leave her child with me?"

"With _someone_ in the Hale family," the first agent clarifies.

The tall one finally speaks up. "We actually believe Tara Jessop's entire family might have been murdered, Tara being the most recent and the _last_ , hence why she was seeking out the Hales."

Derek's suspicions stutter to a halt at that statement. An entire family being dead is something that hits awfully close to home.

The tall one speaks again. "Miss Jessop's family died in Massachusetts, although Miss Jessop herself died in Wyoming. Do you have any recollection of having family in Massachusetts, Mr. Hale?"

"No. No, I don't," Derek answers distantly. Interstate deaths presumed murders, that at least explains the FBI being involved.

"What about friends of family?" the tall one asks.

"No...No, I _don't_ —" Derek cradles his head with a hand. He's having difficulty wrapping his mind around what these people are telling him: that he _may_ have had other family somewhere else all this time; that they _may_ all have been murdered just like the Hales; that that baby _may_ belong to him as next of kin. It's all too much. "I...could you give me a minute?"

"Of course," the tall one says, sympathetic.

The blonder one on the other hand is judging him with a scrutinous eye from the looks of it, while the one in the trenchcoat seems rather indifferent to it all.

Derek takes a seat on the couch, drops his head into his hands, elbows on knees. "So...are there records? Showing the Hales and these...Jessops being related to one another."

"That's unclear," Tall-Guy says. "We were hoping you could shed a little light."

"I can't," Derek says miserably.

"It's all right, Mr. Hale. We'll get this sorted out."

The baby utters a small noise then and Derek's eyes snap to the carrier. He hasn't dared look into it yet.

The man holding it looks between Derek and the baby and asks slowly, "Would you like to hold her?"

Derek looks at him, shocked. This man doesn't know what he's really offering by that. He doesn't realize that to Derek this little girl is a chance for him to have a family again—maybe his _only_ chance to have a family again. He swallows thickly and then looks away, nodding a beat later. "I would."

"Sam," Green-Eyes whispers harshly.

"It's all right, Dean," _Sam_ says, approaching Derek. He sets the carrier down on the coffee table and lifts the little girl gently out of it. "Here. Take her."

Derek inhales deeply, getting a whiff of baby powder and clean cotton and musky leather. He holds out his arms to take the infant, Sam passes her over smoothly. Once he's holding her, Derek knows with bone-deep certainty that he's never going to be able to let her go, whether she's really family or not. As far as he's concerned, she is.

"What's her name?" Derek asks softly, gazing down into a sweet, little face.

"Emma," Dean says gruffly, watching Derek like a hawk.

"Emma," Derek repeats.

Just then, a loud voice reaches them from the outer hall.

"Hey, Derek, you know your door is open, right? What the hell, dude? You want just anything to wander in h—"

Stiles stops abruptly when he spots the three unexpected visitors. His eyes flick to Derek, unsure at first, but then they widen comically when Stiles spots the baby.

"Whaaaaaa….t…?" comes out of Stiles' mouth. "Derek, did you get someone pregnant?"

Derek scowls at the teen, then berates him. "No, Stiles. _Thank you_ , though."

"What, sorry, dude, you can't blame me for thinking...I mean, you're holding a random baby, like what do you expect me to think? So whose is it?" Stiles asks, approaching the group.

"Why are you _here_ , Stiles?" Derek asks, always so unforthcoming with personal information.

"Dad sent me. Said he couldn't get a hold of you on the phone. Said he wanted to talk to you _urgently_. Requested that I check in on you _ASAP_. Wanted you to come to dinner _tonight_." Stiles glances at the three FBI agents. "Don't think it had anything to do with all... _this_ …though, um," he says, waving his hand around in a circle meant to encompass the situation.

He's standing just in front of Derek now, looking down at the baby nestled in his arms. Dean is assessing him, as Stiles smiles warmly at Emma. From the looks of it the agent has labeled the teen as harmless.

"You are just cute as a button, aren't you? Yes, you are," Stiles coos, reaching up to tickle her with one long finger.

Something very strange happens when Stiles touches Emma. A bright white flash of light bursts forth from the pair, illuminating the room for a blinding instant. It fades, gone as if it were never there at all and every person in the room goes statue-still.

Emma's only reaction is to smile, seeming otherwise unaffected; Stiles on the other hand is losing his shit.

"What just happened? Derek, _what just happened?_ Did I hurt her? Oh my god, please tell me she's okay," he rambles, tugging at his own hair worriedly.

"Stiles, calm down. I think she's...fine."

"You don't seem sure. Why don't you seem sure?!" Stiles screeches.

"What the hell was that?" Dean demands, suddenly encroaching on their space.

"I have no idea!" Stiles exclaims, throwing his hands up. "Are you sure she's okay?"

" _Yes_ , Stiles, she's okay," Derek says, pointedly flaring his nostrils, and oddly enough, the kid seems to relax.

"Do _you_ feel okay?" Sam asks of Stiles.

"I—Yeah. I think so," Stiles says, pausing to take stock of himself.

"Cas?" Dean asks of the mysterious and silent third member of the trio.

"Both of the children seem to be fine," Cas announces in a voice that is surprisingly gravelly. "I do not know what could have caused that light."

"We should still get her checked out," Dean says.

Stiles and Derek make eye contact and something subtle passes between them.

"Deaton," Derek says.

"Deaton," Stiles agrees with a short nod, already heading for the door.

"Who's Deaton?" Dean asks. He's not going to take Emma just anywhere.

"A—doctor," Stiles replies haltingly.

Dean frowns at the way he stumbled over the word. Derek is looking at the teenager strangely, but Stiles shoots him a shut-up sort of look and he stops. Dean still isn't so sure about this, but he figures getting Emma checked out by someone seems better than not.

"Fine. Let's go to this Deaton guy."

They make their way out of the loft, then out of the building.

Once they reach the cars, Stiles goes to his Jeep and the trio goes to the Impala. Derek looks back and forth between the two cars; Sam is already buckling the carrier into the back seat of their car.

Stiles catches Derek's eye and reads the uncertainty of leaving the baby with them, the concern that they might take her away after that little light show.

"I can take the baby," Stiles says suddenly.

Dean and Sam exchange their own looks. The message is clear: _I don't want them to run if that's what they're trying to do._

Sam volunteers, "How about I ride with you?" to Stiles. "Mr. Hale can go with Dean and Cas. We won't have to move the car seat."

Derek nods his agreement.

"Sammy, we'll follow you," Dean says, taking Emma from Derek to buckle her into her seat.

They pile into the two cars and then they're off.

They get to Deaton's and Dean immediately and loudly protests being at a veterinarian clinic.

"What the hell is this? I thought the kid said he was a doctor. Not an _animal_ doctor."

"Deaton is more than qualified, believe me," Stiles assures him.  

They slam their car doors shut, Dean still grumbling. Derek scoops up Emma and follows Stiles to the back door.

"What? No, come on," Dean says. "We're going through the back door? This is _so_ sketchy."

"It's _fine_ ," Stiles insists. "Come on."

The door isn't open, but Stiles knows where the key is and lets them in.

Deaton is in the exam room leaning over a drugged-up cat, when the large party bursts through the back hallway. The man looks up and appraises the two he knows with an irritated eye.

"Stiles. Derek. I'm a bit busy. I assume this is important."

Stiles hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "Baby. Important," he babbles incoherently.

Derek rolls his eyes and steps out from behind Stiles. "It _is_ important, Deaton."

Deaton sees the baby for the first time, eyebrows jumping. "I see. Let me just put Toodles here back in his cage."

Dean sneezes all of a sudden, startling nearly everyone. Sam makes an exasperated expression at him, as Cas frowns at him.

"What? Cats, man!" he protests. "Sorry, everybody. Not the best place for me to be."

"I'm sorry, _who_ are you exactly…?" Deaton asks as he returns from the kennel room.

"FBI," Dean says offhandedly.

Derek frowns at him. His heart blipped. That sounded like a lie to him. But that couldn't be right. It had been truthful the first time.

"Deaton, the baby," Stiles presses, gesturing frantically at Emma.

"Yes, of course. Derek, bring her here please."

Derek lays Emma down on the exam table, spreading her blanket out beneath her.

"Now what seems to be the concern?"

"She lit up. I mean, I lit up. I mean—we both lit up!" Stiles supplies helpfully.

Deaton gives him a blank stare for a second before looking to Derek and raising his brow in silent question.

"When Stiles touched her, this big bright light flashed then went away," Derek says flatly. "She seems okay to me, but we don't know what it was or why it did it."

"Ah," Deaton says, looking down at the little girl. "Well…"

He trails off and raises a hand that he gently lays on Emma's tummy. The same strange disbursement of light appears again.

There's a beat of stunned silence and then Dean erupts with, "All right. _Somebody_ better start explaining some things. _Right now_."

"Deaton?" Derek prompts.

Deaton nods, removing his hand from Emma and gazing down at her softly. "The light is nothing harmful, I assure you. It was simply a...reaction of sorts."

"What, like an allergic reaction?" Dean asks. "You two are the only ones that's happened with." The agent is immediately suspicious.

"I would imagine so. Mister Stilinski and I are the only ones, or so I imagine, that this little lady here has come into contact with so far...who have sparks."

"Sparks," Sam says, perplexed.

"What the hell is a spark?" Dean asks.

Cas pipes up. "A spark is a natural gift for magic found in one in every four million eight hundred twenty-nine thousand six hundred and two people."

Stiles, Derek, and Deaton give Castiel varying degrees of "what's your deal, weirdo?" looks.

"Thank you, Cas," Dean says on a sigh. "So you, Emma, and the kid are all _magic?_ "

"The name is Stiles," Stiles points out.

Dean shoots him a look that succinctly shuts him up, looking back to Deaton for an answer to his question.

"That's a simple way of putting it, yes," Deaton says.

"So you're witches," Dean says and something about his tone says he's come across witches before and it was not an enjoyable experience.

"Whoa, wait, witches? What?" Stiles says.

"I didn't realize an FBI agent would be familiar with witches," Deaton says carefully.

"I'm not sure they're FBI agents," Derek says, glaring at them.

Stiles looks surprised at the news. Sam gets slightly nervous and Castiel frowns. Dean's stare, however, is unbreakable.

"May I ask where this child came from?" Deaton queries. "I may better be able to answer your question if I know that."

Sam speaks up. "Her mother died in a car accident. Which we suspect wasn't really an accident on account of every other living member of her family—not to mention their known acquaintances—have all died in the past three weeks."

"Whoa," Stiles whispers.

"Most of them looked to be less than accidents, much like Miss Jessop's car accident," Sam admits.

"Jessop?" Deaton says sharply. "Did you say _Jessop?_ "

Sam nods hesitantly. "I did."

"You know who that is?" Dean asks. Derek could ask the same, but he's honestly not surprised Deaton knows about them, whoever they are.

"I know _of_ the Jessops, yes," Deaton says, looking down at Emma with something close to awe in his face now. "You say they've all been...murdered?"

"Everyone except that little girl right there, far as we can tell," Dean says nodding to Emma on the exam table.

"Oh dear…" Deaton says.

"Who are the Jessops, Deaton?" Derek asks stonily. "And what do they have to do with the Hales?"

Deaton looks at Derek for a long moment before sighing through his nose and saying, "Derek, your great uncle, Benjamin—your grandfather's brother—left the Hale family in his youth to marry a young woman named Annabelle Jessop."

"Left...the family?" Derek says, eyes flicking toward the unwanted guests briefly.

Deaton catches his meaning and nods. "Yes. He left."

Stiles, too, understands that the word they're not saying is pack.

" _Why?_ " Derek asks, the notion unfathomable.

"Why he left? True love, I imagine. Why he had to leave in the first place to marry Annabelle? The rules. To marry into the Jessop family, one _must_ take the Jessop name and live with them in Massachusetts."

"That's why there's no Hale in the Jessop's family history," Sam realizes.

"Exactly. Any outsider who married in took the Jessop family name, no exceptions. It was tradition."

"Like Kira's parents," Stiles says, to which Deaton nods.

"But why?" Dean asks. "What's so special about the Jessops?"

Deaton seems reluctant, but nonetheless supplies, "Because the Jessops are—were—a well-known and powerful coven."

"Fucking _witches_ ," Dean spits. "That's it, we're out of here."

He goes for the baby, but Derek is blocking him in a heartbeat.

"She's not going anywhere. _I'm_ her next of kin. She belongs with _me_."

"I'm not leavin' her to be raised by a bunch of goddamn _witches_ ," Dean says gesturing at the trio. "Now move."

"No," Derek says lowly.

Then there's a gun. Dean pulls it so fast, so expertly, that Stiles is totally certain without a shadow of a doubt of one crucial thing in that singular moment.

"Oh my god, they're hunters," he blurts.

"Yeah, and we're taking the baby, now step aside, witch!" Dean commands.

"I am _not_ a _witch_ ," Derek says, eyes turning blue and teeth elongating.

"Shit," Sam curses, pulling his gun as well.

"What are you?" Dean barks. "A familiar?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Derek sneers.

"Hey, whoa, hey!" Stiles says, slipping in between Derek and the raised guns. There's not a whole lot of room between the werewolf and said guns, so Stiles is back to chest with Derek, holding out a hand in front of him to keep the hunters at bay (hopefully). "Let's all just put the guns away."

"Like hell," Dean spits.

"Stiles!" Derek growls, grabbing the teen by the arm. "Stop putting yourself in front of guns!"

"Stop antagonizing the hunters!" Stiles shoots back. "Can everybody just chill? Look, do like this guy's doing," Stiles says, gesturing at Castiel. "No guns, gun free. See? He gets it. He's not about to attack anybody."

"I do not need guns to attack someone," Castiel states ominously.

Stiles eyes go large and he no longer has the presence of mind to argue when Derek yanks him back. The werewolf makes sure Stiles is completely shielded behind his larger form and then directs a full-tilt glare at the hunters.

"I appreciate you bringing my cousin here, but you have done your part and it is time for you to leave."

"Not gonna happen, Fangs," Dean says.

"You gonna stop me?" Derek challenges.

"Oh my god, stop!" Stiles shouts from behind Derek's shoulder.

Deaton clears his throat loudly, drawing everyone's attention even if he doesn't draw their gaze. He's leaned casually against the counter behind him, having backed up a few paces when the guns came out.

"Perhaps we should set some things straight before we proceed," he says calmly.

Stiles glances down to Emma, who's none the wiser to the tension in the room, then back to Deaton.

"No one in this room is a witch."

"What?" Dean snaps.

Deaton replies with his own question. "You gentlemen are the hunters known as the Winchesters, are you not?"

"You've heard of us?" Sam says.

"There's not many who haven't," Deaton surmises.

"I haven't," Stiles pipes up.

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek says. "If you're the Winchesters, then you don't hunt _us_. Isn't that right, Deaton?"

"Correct. The Winchesters hunt various monsters and demons to my knowledge."

"You trying to tell me blue-eyes over here isn't some kind of _monster?_ " Dean asks. His gun hasn't wavered at all.

"In the classic sense, no," Deaton says simply. "In fact, the definition of monster has never applied to Derek or his kind. The word, monster, was originally used to describe humans with deformities and then quickly went on to be a descriptor for those rather legendary creatures you gentlemen pursue. Derek is not an uncontrollable nightmare of a beast, the type I assume you have found before."

"Just spit it out. What is he?"

"In layman's terms? He's a werewolf," Deaton announces.

"Shit," Dean says, already knowing that neither of their guns or pockets have silver bullets in them.

"If you're worried about not having a silver bullet to kill him, don't be. It wouldn't kill him anyway," Deaton says.

"Nobody is killing anybody," Stiles says, peeking his head over Derek's shoulder. "There is a _baby_ in the room."

"What kind of werewolf has blue eyes and doesn't die by silver bullets?" Sam wonders.

"And what can I kill it with?" Dean asks.

Derek growls low and warning. Stiles tries to step out from behind Derek to defend him, but Derek elbows him back.

"Derek is a type of werewolf belonging to the _bisclavret_ gene."

"Wait. _Bisclavret?_ Like Marie de France's _Bisclavret_?" Sam asks interestedly.

"I knew it!" Stiles crows. "There _are_ different types of werewolves! And not just Alpha, Beta, Omega."

"Alpha what now?" Dean asks.

"Is there an Alpha werewolf in town?" Sam asks in blatant alarm. "Because if there is, we need to know."

"Gentlemen. I assure there's no danger here," Deaton says. "Please. Put the guns away and we'll have a little history lesson that will clear all this right up."

Sam and Dean exchange looks, then oddly enough, Dean looks back at Castiel who hasn't broken his stare on Deaton since the vet spoke up. He breaks it now to look at Dean; he gives one shallow nod and Dean turns back to the Beacon Hills party and holsters his weapon after a pause. Sam follows suit. Then Dean's crossing his arms over his chest and mean-mugging the lot of them.

"Talk," he spits.

"If you're familiar with the story of _Bisclavret_ ," Deaton begins, "then you know that he was a knight, who assumed a wolf's form by removing all of his clothes and going into the forest. This was by choice; his transformation was never anything other than voluntary.

"Marie de France's lai doesn't go into detail as to how he's able to do this in the first place, but it was known by other parties who passed the knowledge down over the years. You've probably heard many stories of creatures such as selkies or swan maidens, who wear animal skins to maintain the shape of that animal, and should they remove their skins become human."

Stiles says, "Right. Men would steal their skins so they could marry them as humans in the stories."

"Correct," Deaton agrees. "But the knight was the very opposite. It was his human garments that kept him human and his nudity that made him a wolf. Why do you think that is?"

"Because he wasn't originally human," Dean deduces, scowling.

"Also correct. The knight, Bisclavret _,_ was born a wolf, valiant in nature even then, and he earned the favor of a kindly witch when he saved her from, legend has it, another witch trying to kill her for her power. Grateful to him, the witch granted him any wish within her power and he chose to become a human, so that he might become a knight and then pursue the woman he had fallen in love with. She provided him with the means to transform and an identity amongst men suitable for knighthood, as well as the means to start out his human life. Her spell altered his body at the most basic of levels to make it capable of the shift, then linked its transformation to a physical item as was the limit of her power. So said, it was the clothes of man that would keep Bisclavret a man.

"Now in the story, due to the betrayal of his wife, the very woman he turned human for, he spent many years stuck as a wolf, yet still in the service of the king and still as noble as ever, finally turning back into a man when his wife's wrongdoings were corrected.

"The story ends there with a happily-ever-after for the wolf-knight. But what it doesn't tell you is that during the years the knight spent as a wolf, he sired children by a she-wolf out in the woods. They too carried his ability to transform and, when he was once again able to turn human, he brought them into the world of man with him. His children were  bound by the same rules of man's clothes and, wanting to assure his offspring never suffered the same fate he did, he sought out the very witch that had gifted him his transformation and asked her to change the state of their fates.

"She could not take away the necessity of an item to tie the transformation to, but she could change the item. Inspired by the tales of the garwolves of France she chose to tie them to the moon, thinking it appropriate and, noting that the moon could not be controlled or stolen by any man. So the children would stay human, but for once a month under the thrall of the full moon, when they would be allowed to return to their roots and run the forest together as wolves.

"The type of werewolf that you see standing before you resulted in crossbreeding between Bisclavret's genetic line and the type of werewolves that were cursed by Zeus in Ancient Greece that I imagine you gentlemen are familiar with. The two types were drawn to each other, intrinsically linked in their natures and finding the other attractive. The progeny _they_ produced inherited the ability to transform into what is called a beta shift, a halfway transformation, as well as a restriction on turning others through bites; though they lost the general ability to transform into full wolves, they retained their senses enough to be capable of learning control of themselves and of the shift. They feel no natural bloodlust for solely human hearts as the purely accursed species do and they traded silver weapons for a different kind of weakness. There are three different types of these weres': Alpha, Beta, and Omega. The Alphas are the leaders of their packs and the only ones capable of turning a human. The Betas are the other type of werewolf in a pack, under the Alpha, and Omegas are lone wolves, who have no pack. They are not hunted by you and yours because there is no need for it. If a _bisclavret_ hybrid ever does need to be dealt with, another werewolf or a specific type of hunter will do it.

"Now, does that put you gentlemen at ease?"

Deaton looks at the trio with a carefully raised brow, practically daring them to argue. They say nothing.

Stiles raises his hand slowly, the hunter trio's eyes darting to it, when it rises above Derek's shoulder from the other side of the werewolf where he's _still_ bodily blocking Stiles from the hunters.

"Yes, Stiles?" Deaton says patronizingly.

"So...if the two different types were super attracted to each other...why haven't we ever seen the, uh, cursed type or whatever?"

"The two _pure_ strands were attracted to each other. The accursed and the hybrids are not. Quite the opposite in fact, as the accursed are intrinsically programmed to stay as far away from a hybrid as possible. Something about the hybrids' tendency toward packs, whereas an accursed is usually alone and therefore outnumbered if confronted by hybrids. Plus most packs will actually kill an accursed were' on the spot. They're a danger to everyone and the packs recognize that."

Sam asks, "What about the purely _bisclavret_ type? Are there any of them left?"

Deaton looks almost sad. "No, I'm afraid not. They were wiped out through years of crossbreeding and murderous zealots."

"The Argents," Derek says. It's not a question.

"They were one of the groups, yes," Deaton agrees.

"Argents," Dean grunts. "As in Kate Argent?"

"One and the same," Deaton says.

"They're a hunting family? How come we've never heard of them?" Sam asks.

"Because they were never hunting the same things as you," Deaton says slyly. "There was never a reason for your paths to cross. Granted the Argents came across many a type of nefarious creature and would kill them without consideration, but their main focus has always been keeping the hybrid population "under control"."

Stiles makes a face. "Let me guess: one old French family plus another old French family equals lifelong rivalry that turns into murder at some point without anyone noticing."

Deaton's lips thin. "They were supposed to follow a code."

"Right," Stiles says, face twisted in disgust. He turns around to pat Derek's chest sympathetically. "Sorry, buddy. Looks like the Argents killed even more of your family than you thought."

Derek glares down at him.

Stiles seems to realize what just came out of his mouth. "God. Sorry. Jeez. Sorry. Forget I said that."

Derek rolls his eyes and turns fully back to the hunters. "Satisfied?" he asks darkly.

"Hell, no," Dean says. He points at Deaton, "We still don't know what the hell _you_ ," his finger moves to Stiles, "or _you_ are."

"I'm a druid," Deaton says, adding, "retired," and smiling easily to which Stiles scoffs. "Druids don't hold the same level of power as witches and their intent is solely to aid in the balance. I'm no threat I assure you."

"We know what druids are. What about Pinky over here?" Dean asks.

"Hey, what?" Stiles squawks.

"Stiles is…" Deaton pauses and all eyes land on him. "Stiles is not yet a witch," Deaton finishes.

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean asks.

"He is untrained," Castiel speaks up. "I suspect he did not know about his gifts until today."

"My spark?" Stiles says. "I knew about my spark. I used it with a mountain ash barrier once."

Castiel shakes his head slowly. "You possess far more than a simple spark."

Stiles' eyes widen, betrayed. He turns back to Deaton and asks in a voice far too small for the boisterous boy, "What?"

"Perhaps that's a subject for another time," Deaton says professionally, coldly brushing him aside. "Our concern lies with the young Emma here."

"Emma stays here," Derek announces, no room for argument.

Dean practically snarls, but he shifts his weight aggressively and says, "Fine. But we're sticking around and we're making sure you _are_ what you _say_ you are. We'll be keeping an eye on you."

"And," Sam chimes, trying to balm over the brewing violence between Derek and his brother, "we'll be trying to figure out what happened to the Jessops. Dr. Deaton, do you have any idea who might be behind all this?"

"I'm afraid not," Deaton says. "But I assure you news of the Jessops' destruction will spread far and wide. Sooner rather than later there will be rumors on the air. Theories. I'll keep my ears open."

"Much appreciated," Sam says.

"It's not for you," Deaton says coolly. "This child is the last in a long line of esteemed witches. I will do all that I can to assure she survives."

"That's ominous," Stiles mumbles. "Derek, get Emma. Let's get out of here."

The teen is mulish and sullen quite suddenly; Derek infers it's due to the big reveal that Deaton has been purposefully not telling Stiles what he knew. He doesn't know why Stiles is surprised. Regardless, he squeezes the boy's elbow gently before moving to the baby. It's small, but it's what comfort he can offer.

Stiles seems to relax minutely.

Derek asks Deaton, "That light. Will it happen every time you or Stiles touch her?"

Stiles rounds on them, deeply invested in the answer to that question.

"No, no," Deaton assures them. "That was one time only, just on our first meeting, don't worry. It was Emma's spark saying hello. She's a baby and she's curious. She just wanted to get to know us. Now that she's familiar with us, it won't happen again."

Stiles seems to absorb that information like a paper towel absorbs water.

"Thank you, Dr. Deaton," Sam says politely as they all make it to the door.

"Anytime…" Deaton says.

Once they're outside by the cars, they all stand in awkward silence for a few beats.

"Well…" Sam says, trying to be diplomatic and missing by a mile, "that was—enlightening."

Dean snorts. "I'll say."

"We still have no idea what could be after an entire coven of witches though," Sam says.

Dean says, "Cas, you got any ideas off the top of your featherbrain?"

"No, Dean. Nothing comes to mind."

"Featherbrain?" Stiles says, perplexed. "This guy may be a little weird, but he's not a _ditz_. Why would you call him _featherbrain?_ "

"It's a nickname," Dean says, practically grinding his teeth.

"Yeah, but it's a dumb one," Stiles says in complete seriousness. "I mean, come on. Derek's a werewolf. I could call him Sourwolf or Fluffy and that would make sense. But calling Mr. Trenchcoat "featherbrain"? You can do better, I think."

"Call me Fluffy and suffer horribly," Derek says calmly, eyes on Emma in his arms.

"You got it, Sourwolf," Stiles says cheekily.

Derek rolls his eyes.

"Ah," Castiel says suddenly. "I understand. You are referring to Derek's similarity to a wolf with your nickname and Dean is referring to my similarity to a bird with his. But you do not understand the reference."

"You're a bird?" Stiles asks, brow scrunching.

"No, I am an Angel of the Lord."

"W-what?!" Stiles explodes. Derek sidesteps him when the limbs go flying. "You're an _angel_?! Angels are real?! What is— _What?!_ "

"Geez, kid, don't get a hernia," Dean says, leaning away from his fanatic form.

"But-but-but—but _angels!_ "

"Yes, Cas is an angel, it's all very nice," Dean says sarcastically.

"Don't let him fool you, Stiles," Sam says, hiding a grin. "Dean had a hard time wrapping his head around it too, when he found out."

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean grumps.

Stiles snickers. The other four look at him strangely. He's sort of bordering on hysterical.

"Angels…" Stiles says. "Ha! What the hell is my life?"

"I ask myself that every day," Dean says.

Stiles' hysteria seems to abate then and he takes a long look at Cas, something flashing through his eyes. Derek recognizes it instantly; so do the Winchesters. He wants to ask about someone.

Dean clears his throat, dispelling the shroud of melancholy. "So, Derek. You know how to take care of a baby?"

"Yes," Derek replies tersely. "I have a little sister and had younger cousins."

Stiles blinks. "Oh, yeah. Cora. You gonna tell her about this?"

Derek looks down at Emma, face blank. "Eventually. She has a right to know, but I don't think she'll really want to."

Stiles swallows, awkward. When Cora left, she kind of _left_ as far as he can tell—removed herself from Beacon Hills and the people there completely. She and Derek must email occasionally or something, but Stiles thinks that's pretty much it.

"You have other family besides your uncle?" Sam queries.

Derek regards him with the kind of expression that says he's highly displeased with the hunter knowing anything about his family, _especially_ things that Derek didn't tell him himself.

"My sister and a cousin," Derek replies.

"Are you going to tell Peter?" Stiles asks, eyes wide.

Derek shoots him a dark look. "No."

"Totally fair. I agree with that decision 100%."

"Yeah, whatever happened to your uncle after he went missing?" Dean asks.

"He wound up in the crazy house," Stiles says, grinning like that's the best thing in the whole wide world. There's obviously a story there, but Stiles doesn't tell it, only turns to Derek and prompts, "What about Malia?"

"I'll tell her. But...not just yet," Derek says.

Stiles nods like he understands. "You need to get settled first. Then we tell people."

"She needs...things," Derek says helplessly. "I don't even have a crib."

"Oh! I do!" Stiles chimes. "My bassinet is still up in our attic somewhere. My parents kept it because they were thinking about having another kid, before—" Stiles stops, shakes himself. "The point is we have one. I'm sure you're more than welcome to it."

Derek nods.

Dean offers, "There's enough diapers and formulas to last you a couple of days."

Stiles seems satisfied with that answer. "Good," he says. "Okay. We'll go shopping tomorrow. I'll make a list tonight."

While Derek seems agreeable to this, the other three find themselves frowning.

It's Sam who asks, "Why is a teenager going to help you shop for baby stuff?"

"Stiles is…" Derek shrugs, "good with lists."

Stiles nods happily. "Planning. It's what I do."

"Right," Dean says, eyeing Stiles warily. Kid seems way too happy about having a baby dropped into their lives unexpectedly.

"So, dinner then," Stiles says to Derek. "You're coming?"

Derek nods, then adds, "We are," chin dipping toward the bundle in his arms.

"We're coming too," Dean says decisively. "I'm still not okay with this."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Fine. Come observe us in our natural habitat and see for yourself that Derek isn't some savage beast. Geez...Just add three more mouths to feed, that's not a big deal or anything."

"We appreciate your hospitality," Sam chips in with a pleasant smile.

"I can assist you in the kitchen if you require it," Cas says. "I don't know how I can help, but I have two hands."

Stiles squints at Castiel.

Dean rolls his eyes this time. "He means he can give you a hand. Or two."

"Oh. Right," Stiles says easily. "Okay, that sounds great actually, thanks. I could use some help if I'm going to be feeding six. C'mon, then."

Castiel nods and makes to follow Stiles. Dean snags his elbow.

"You going to be all right without us?" he asks in a low voice.

"Yes, Dean, I will be fine. Thank you," Castiel says with a short, reassuring nod.

Derek is giving Dean the stink-eye when he pulls away from the angel, no doubt having translated that as, _You going to be okay alone with_ them _?_

Dean makes a rather childish face at him in retaliation, drawing an eye roll out of his brother.

The werewolf shoulders the diaper bag and heads over to Stiles and Castiel.

Stiles looks at him strangely when Derek opens the passenger door on Stiles' Jeep.

"What are you doing?" the teen asks.

"I'm riding with you," Derek says simply. Glancing back at the hunters he adds, "The car seat."

"Why?" Stiles asks Derek.

Derek gives him _a look_. That seems to be the only answer forthcoming.

Stiles puts his hands up in surrender. "Whatever. Give me the baby."

Derek passes Emma over to Stiles to hold while the car seat gets transferred over.

Dean glares the entire time he's unhooking the car seat from the Impala and "helping" Derek secure it in the back seat of Stiles' Jeep.

"You have to have both sides buckled," Dean says.

"I know," Derek growls. "I'm getting it."

"No, like this," Dean says, reaching over the collapsed driver's seat to intercept the other man.

"I've got it, get out of the car!" Derek snipes.

Stiles grimaces, exchanges a look with Sam, who is making a similar face. Castiel is frowning thoughtfully at the exchange. Stiles has kind of gathered "thoughtful frowning" is one of his go-to expressions.

Derek and Dean finally manage to finagle the car seat in correctly, pulling out of the Jeep and baring their teeth at each other. Stiles is just glad Derek's are still as blunt and human as Dean's.

"Okay," Stiles says with a tone meant to break up their macho-match. "Let's get this show on the road. Can Castiel text you my address?"

Sam pulls a phone out of his pocket. "Actually, it'd be better if I got your number and you texted me. Cas isn't always so good with phones."

Castiel looks to Sam and says, "I am simply not accustomed to them. Still."

"We know, Cas. It's fine," Dean says, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll see you at dinner. Try not to be too weird."

The angel frowns at Dean, but nods at his instructions anyway.

"Okay," Stiles says after dictating his number to Sam. "Text me, then I'll text you back. See you at say...6:00?"

"Sounds good. See you then, Stiles," Sam says.

Dean gives one last long glance at Emma, where she's strapped into her little seat beside Derek.

"Be careful with her. She's not a werewolf, all right?"

Derek glares out the window at him. "I. Know."

Stiles shakes his head at them and gets behind the wheel. Cas closes the passenger door, Derek growls out, "drive carefully" at Stiles, and then they're on their way.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, been a few months, but we're gonna have some fun, so I hope that makes up for it~

Once inside the house, Castiel takes a moment to look around the entryway.

His face is as expressionless as ever, when he turns to Stiles to say, "You have a lovely home."

"Thanks," Stiles says, mentally adding _I guess_.

Derek goes straight to the living room like he owns the place and sets Emma's carrier down beside the couch. The infant, who slept through the duration of the car ride, has stirred awake in all her jostling. She blinks up at Derek now, making spit bubbles and wriggling slightly.

Stiles has to stop and do a double take, when he glances over and finds Derek smiling down at her. Like—a _real_ smile, full of teeth and _joy_. He stares for a minute, startled out of his stupor, only when Castiel asks where the kitchen is from _right freaking behind him._

Stiles jolts and then casts a displeased look in the angel's direction. "What are you, a werewolf?"

"No," Castiel says. "I am an Angel of the Lord. I thought you kne—"

"No, I know, I know. I just meant you snuck up on me. The werewolves have the same creeper problem. Or at least that one over there does."

Derek shoots Stiles a mild glare before turning his attention back to the baby and scooping her up in his arms.

"Kitchen's this way, Cas, m'man," Stiles says.

Castiel follows Stiles into the kitchen, watching as Stiles rustles around cabinets and fridge shelves for a few beats. When he straightens up, he says, "Yup. Okay. Pasta primavera, it is. How about you get started on the vegetables?"

An hour later it's just past 5:30 and Derek's voice comes from the living room, slightly alarmed.

"Stiles."

Stiles appears in the doorway in a heartbeat. "What? What? What is it?"

He looks between a wide-eyed Derek and a sleeping Emma. Nothing strikes him as out of place except for the fact that Derek Hale is sitting on his couch holding a baby in the first place.

"Your dad just pulled up," Derek says like he's announcing Doomsday.

Stiles grows puzzled. "Is that...a cause for alarm?"

Derek looks intensely uncomfortable as he says, "The baby…"

"What _about_ the baby, Derek?"

"I don't know how he's going to react," Derek bites out, bristling at Stiles' callousness.

Stiles blinks. Then he laughs. "Derek. Dude. My dad _loves_ babies."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"Then what?"

Derek huffs. He looks down at the little girl in his arms and says quietly, "I'm not exactly fit to be a parent…"

The light bulb goes off and Stiles realizes, "You think my dad is going to take her away from you."

Derek nods.

" _Dude_ , Derek," Stiles says emphatically, taking a seat beside Derek on the couch. He rests a hand on Derek's shoulder and squeezes lightly. "My dad is not going to deem you an unfit parent and take her into custody. He likes you, if you hadn't noticed. Trust me, he wouldn't keep asking for your help with police stuff if he didn't. He's kind of stubborn like me in that way."

Derek half-smirks. "Shouldn't that be the other way around?"

Stiles waves a hand flippantly. "Whatever. You know what I mean. But seriously. Dad's not going to do anything but help you with this. Promise. It's totally legal for you to have her anyway. You _are_ the next living relative after all. We'll use his police powers to make extra-sure. She's yours, man. Be happy."

Derek glances at Stiles before looking back down into the sweet little face of his—his daughter, he guesses. He wouldn't want to be anything else to her, but a father. Not when she has no one else.

"Yeah," he says quietly—

—right as the Sheriff steps into the room and stops dead in his tracks.

"What—" he begins. "Why—" tries again. " _Stiles,_ " he decides on, exasperated.

Stiles gets defensive at the tone of voice. He flails his long limbs as he exclaims, "What, why are you acting like this is _my_ fault?"

"Because—" the Sheriff stops, when Castiel suddenly appears in the doorway.

All eyes land on him and Castiel stoically says, "Hello."

"Who are you?" Sheriff Stilinski asks.

"I am Castiel," Castiel says, and, not understanding what Stiles is trying to tell him as he waves his arms frantically in a cutting motion across his neck while shaking his head, unfortunately finishes with, "an Angel of the Lord."

Stiles sighs, deflated. The Sheriff blinks twice at Castiel, then Castiel says to Stiles, "Stiles, I believe it is time to put the garlic bread in."

"Yes, yes, okay, I'm coming, thank you, Cas," Stiles says.

Castiel nods and looks awkwardly between Stiles and the Sheriff. "I'll just...be in here," he says and disappears through the doorway.

Jonathan Stilinski watches him leave, then looks back at his son. "Please tell me he's joking. Or crazy. I'll take crazy."

Stiles shakes his head slowly. "Nope."

The Sheriff nods to himself, hands on his hips. "Yep. Okay. And the baby?"

"Not Derek's!" Stiles says quickly. "Except actually Derek's."

The Sheriff seems less than satisfied with that confusing answer.

"Her mother died," Derek says softly, saving both Stilinskis from an even more frustrating conversation. "She's...Deaton thinks I'm her next of kin. Besides Peter. And before Cora or Malia."

A sympathetic expression crosses the Sheriff's face. "I'm sorry to hear that about her mother, son."

Derek shakes his head a little, looking back at Emma, who hasn't stirred a bit. "I didn't know her."

"The angel and his, uh, friends brought her here. To Derek," Stiles informs his father.

"Friends?" Jonathan asks.

"Yeah, not, um, not more angels, but hunters actually," Stiles admits.

The Sheriff sighs. "Hunters? And they just passed an infant over to a werewolf?"

"Well, sort of?" Stiles says. "That's kind of why they sent Cas, to like keep an eye on us or whatever."

"Is she a werewolf?" Jonathan asks of the child.

"No," Stiles shakes his head. And that's apparently all he's going to say on the matter, failing to mention what she actually is.

Derek gives him a look that Stiles returns tenfold.

The Sheriff watches them with a suspicious eye, then says, "Okay, I don't even want to know what that was about. Let's just...I'm going to go get changed. Then we're going to eat. Then we're going to figure out the paperwork for this."

Sheriff Stilinski starts heading up the stairs and Stiles calls after him in one big breath, "B.T.W. the hunters are coming to dinner too, their names are Sam and Dean, Sam seems cool, Dean not so much, I love you, always remember that!"

They can both hear him pause on the stairs and the sigh that comes from him a beat later. "Maybe a little warning next time, huh?" he calls back down to his son, then continues trudging up the staircase.

Stiles collapses back into the couch cushions, covering his face with his hands.

Derek levels a look at him.

Without even needing to see him Stiles knows this and he asks, " _What?_ " through his hands.

"Didn't even send him a text, did you?"

"No, and shut up, there is a baby in my living room and an angel in my kitchen, I was dealing with other things."

"Speaking of angels, should you be leaving him in there alone for so long?"

"Oh, god, probably not," Stiles says and quickly launches off of the couch.

Derek smirks after his retreating back, then stares at Emma again. She hasn't budged an inch.

 

The Sheriff comes back downstairs, gives Derek a pointed, "don't try to run" look, grabs a beer from the kitchen, then plops down beside the werewolf.

He takes a pull of his beverage, then says, "So. A kid, huh?"

Derek nods. This is exactly the conversation he was dreading.

"It's a big responsibility," Jonathan says casually.

He doesn't have to remind Derek exactly how much he's failed at responsibility. Nobody has to remind him that of four betas, two are dead and two are gone.

"Most rewarding experience I've come across in my life so far though. Even more than being a cop, or a Sheriff, or a soldier back in the day. Worth every second, even the hellish ones, I promise."

Derek just nods again.

"I know you don't have much by way of support system," Jonathan says, "so whatever you might need, I'm here for you and I'm sure Melissa McCall will feel the same way. There's just certain things the books don't teach you, you know. Don't worry about that though. The books, I mean. No one is ever prepared for being a parent no matter how many books they read. It'll come to you one day at a time. You'll do great."

The Sheriff falls silent, sipping from his beer again.

Derek can barely believe what was just said to him. _You'll do great_. Nobody has placed that kind of faith in Derek in a long time. It feels good, especially so, coming from Sheriff Stilinski, a man he's come to admire.

"Thank you, sir," Derek says. He doesn't really think that expresses how much his encouragement and advice mean to him, but it's all he can come up with.

"Anytime, Derek. I mean it," Jonathan says, smiling warmly. Then his smile grows wider as he says, "Now are you gonna let me hold her or what?"

Derek grins in spite of himself. He passes Emma over to the Sheriff, telling him her name when asked.

"Well, you're just the prettiest little girl I've ever seen," Jonathan coos down at her, automatically swaying side to side. Emma sniffles, but sleeps on blissfully unaware of the world around her.

There's a knock on the door, brusque and heavy-sounding. Derek can guess who that is.

He goes to get the door, because Stiles hasn't come out of the kitchen and the Sheriff is far too preoccupied with rocking back and forth as he mumbles words of adoration at Emma.

"You're early," he says when he opens the door to reveal the Winchesters.

"Sue me," Dean says unpleasantly, then shoulders his way in.

Sam passes a polite smile to Derek, which Derek returns tightly.

"To the left," Derek says, when Dean looks from side to side in the hall.

Dean walks into the living room and balks at the sight of Sheriff Stilinski sitting there.

"Sheriff," he says roughly, clearing his throat and recovering quickly. "What a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?"

The Sheriff gives him a flat look. "Agent Page. I live here. What are _you_ doing here?"

Dean freezes, the cogs in his mind turning as he puts it together. "Wait— _you're_ Stiles' father?"

"Yes. And I assume you're not really an FBI Agent."

"Ha ha...no, that...would be correct," Dean says, looking away guiltily.

Sam waves at the Sheriff from behind Dean. "Hi, Sheriff Stilinski. Lovely home."

The Sheriff rolls his eyes. "Derek, the baby if you would."

Derek strides over to him and gives the brothers a self-satisfied smirk as the Sheriff moseys up to them and crosses his arms in an "I mean business" stance.

"Now what are your real names?"

"Dean," Dean says, defeated, then hooking a thumb at Sam, "Sam. Winchester. We're brothers."

"And you're the hunters that brought that little girl here?"

"Yes, sir," Dean says, head bowed in deference and perhaps, maybe a little preemptive self-defense.

"Well, I'll thank you for that. I haven't heard the full story on what happened to her mother, but I'm positive she didn't deserve it. So, thank you."

"You are welcome, sir," Dean says, daring to make eye contact.

"Now about you waltzing into my office and impersonating federal agents."

"Sheriff, you have to understand that in our line of work—" Dean begins.

"I really loved the way you pulled one over on McCall," the Sheriff interrupts, suddenly grinning.

"Come again?" Dean asks, eyebrows high on his forehead. His brother's expression is much the same.

"Agent McCall. The _real_ federal agent you hoodwinked. The guy's a jerk. Walked out on his wife and kid, my son's _best_ friend, mind you, years ago, then strolls back into town a few months ago acting like he didn't ditch them. He's started making up for it, hell, he's saved Stiles' life twice, but he's still got a lot of road to cover on the path to redemption. And, well, old habits die hard and all. I really loved the way you made him look like a guppy today, _especially_ now that I know it was all a farce. You gotta tell me how you pulled that off."

Sam and Dean are flabbergasted as the Sheriff comes forward and claps them both on the shoulder.

He's smiling, but his expression quickly turns serious as he says, "But don't ever do that again. I'm in the know about the supernatural, so if you ever need anything again, you come to me honestly. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Dean says, not believing their luck.

"Thank you for understanding, Sheriff," Sam says.

Jonathan shrugs. "I've learned you've got to bend the rules with stuff like this occasionally. I understand the situation was "abnormal" as so many things in my life are these days." He chuckles. "Man, the look on Rafael's face though. I wished I'd gotten it on camera."

"What happened to trash-dad?" Stiles asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

Sheriff Stilinski shoots him a stern look. "Stiles."

"Right, yes, I'm not allowed to call him that even though it's an accurate descriptor," Stiles says, completely unapologetically. "But what happened with "Agent McCall"?"

"These boys got one over on him today. It was great," Jonathan says.

"Awesome," Stiles says, grinning in unadulterated glee.

 _Man, they really don't like the guy,_ Dean thinks. _Could probably earn some more brownie points if I tripped him._

Stiles continues, "Tell it to me over dinner. Food's ready."

"Good. I'm starving," Jonathan says leading the way.

 

Stiles has a delectable spread of pasta, salad, and garlic bread spread out on the table. His father takes one head of the table and Dean takes the other. Castiel, who boasts that nothing was ruined by he or Stiles, sits next to Dean. This puts Sam at the Sheriff's elbow on the same side of the table as the angel. Stiles is across from him on his father's other side and Derek winds up in between Stiles and Dean. Dean seems less than thrilled about that, save for the fact that it puts Emma in her carrier in between them in a spare chair Stiles dragged in from somewhere.

Stiles immediately places a warm bottle in front of Derek, stating, "She's been asleep a long time, she's bound to be hungry any time now."

Derek nods, casting a quick glance at Emma, who still seems fast asleep, at least for the moment.

They plate up, Stiles swapping two, un-buttered wheat rolls for the garlic bread his father tries to take. The Sheriff sighs and resigns himself to his whole-wheat goodness. Dean laughs a little at the exchange. That all changes when he tries to skip on the salad and Stiles guilts him into taking some by waving around the fact that Cas chopped the vegetables. The Sheriff gets a turn to laugh at Dean then, which Sam gladly joins in on.

Stiles urges his father to tell the story from the station. He gets two words in and Emma starts wailing. Derek has his first forkful of food halfway to his mouth and freezes.

Dean looks at her and says, "That's definitely a hungry cry."

"Told you," Stiles says.

Derek places his fork on his plate, then lifts Emma into a cradled position. Dean also sets his fork down and reaches for her.

"Here, let me," he says nonchalantly. "You eat."

Derek scowls at him. "I got it. _You_ eat. You are a _guest_ after all," Derek says, smiling just to show his teeth.  

Dean gives him a hearty glare, but goes back to his food.

Sam clears his throat to clear the air. "So Sheriff Stilinski. How long have you known about the supernatural?"

"Just a few months now," Jonathan says, watching Derek carefully as he remembers the best way to hold both the baby and the bottle. Dean is doing likewise and by some small miracle manages to keep his trap shut. "Stiles tried to tell me and I didn't buy it. Funny how getting kidnapped by a darach can change your point of view on things."

Sam arches his eyebrows. "A darach. We've never come across one of those. That's a...dark druid, right?"

Stiles lights up, obviously recognizing a fellow know-it-all. "Yeah. She was one wicked lady, too, let me tell you."

A few minutes pass with Stiles regaling the Winchesters and Castiel with the tale of the darach. Then he passes the talking stick over to his father, still wanting to hear about Rafael McCall's earlier embarrassment. About forty seconds in, he reaches over to Derek. He and the werewolf seamlessly exchange baby and bottle without so much as a word; Stiles takes a turn feeding Emma, while Derek gets to finally feed himself.

Dean and Sam exchange a look around Castiel. There's definitely something going on with those two.

Castiel very suddenly comments to Stiles, "You're very good with children for someone your age."

Everyone at the table freezes.

"Geez, Cas, no tact," Dean mutters. Although he had been wondering the same thing.

"I apologize," Castiel says. "I did not mean any offense. But you are only seventeen and you handle the child with the experience of a parent. Do you have children?"

Stiles blushes to the roots of his hair, "Jesus, _no_ , I just...have had some experience with babies. We...we house some of the safe-haven babies for like a weekend sometimes. It's not a big deal."

Derek did not know that. That certainly explains a lot though. Like Stiles knowing how to make a bottle. Or Stiles automatically knowing how to hold a baby to feed her. Derek had to drudge up the knowledge from his childhood, but Stiles is like an old pro.

The Sheriff nods. "We've had more than one instance with both of our usual foster houses being full-up and as Sheriff, I automatically have permission to take an infant under my care until the state services can arrange for pick-up. It's always very sad, when that many children have been abandoned, but it does happen. Stiles has been handling babies since he was twelve. We had one in the house just last summer."

Stiles is still blushing bright scarlet, everyone's scrutiny suddenly zeroed in on him. "It is _not_ a big deal, guys. Geez. Lots of kids have to...grow up faster than normal, okay?"

The Sheriff grows morose at that. The outsiders imagine it might have something to do with Mrs. Stilinski's absence.

Sam offers, "You're right, Stiles. Dean practically raised me single-handed."

"Aw, Sammy, don't start with that," Dean gripes.

Sam raises his hands in surrender. "I was just contributing to the conversation."

Emma is done with her bottle and Stiles passes her back to Derek, next rising from his chair to fetch something. He returns with a burp cloth, situates it on Derek's shoulder, and, stroking Emma's head, says, "Fire away, gassy pants."

Derek scowls at him for the unnecessary comment as Stiles takes his seat again, but goes about patting Emma gently on the back.

Stiles scarfs down the rest of his dinner and asks his dad if they can give his bassinet to Derek. The Sheriff agrees readily, glad it'll be getting some more use after all. Emma burps twice, Derek puts her back in the carrier, and then suddenly the atmosphere at the table changes entirely. The air grows heavy and the mood turns dark. Tension stretches across each man's shoulders as the matter at hand rears its ugly head again.

"Stiles tells me Emma's mother is dead," the Sheriff says. "Was she murdered?"

Sam leans back in his chair. "Hard to say exactly, but we're pretty sure she was. It was a car accident, but she got out of the wrecked car and began dragging herself through the woods with Emma. Away from the road."

Jonathan shakes his head gravely. "Doesn't sound much like an accident to me."

"Agreed," Sam says. "There were no signs of another car being involved, which leads us to believe that whatever was after them was on foot. Likely supernatural."

"Any idea what?" the Sheriff asks.

"Unfortunately, no," Sam declares.

"But you think she was targeted specifically? It wasn't just some random attack?"

Dean shakes his head. "All signs point to intentional and specific. Apparently her entire coven has been wiped out, so we think she was just next in line. That's why Tara, Emma's mom, was trying to reach the Hales. Or what's left of them anyway."

"Wait, coven?" the Sheriff asks. "As in witches?"

"Yeah, Emma's whole bloodline was witches like Stiles here," Dean says, wondering why that's such news to the Sheriff.

He finds out quickly enough when the man rounds on his son, incredulous. "What does he mean "like Stiles," _Stiles?_ "

Stiles winces, then shoots a glare at Dean. "Gee, thanks for letting that cat out of the bag, Dean."

Dean shrugs. "Not my fault you didn't tell him."

"I was going to tell him later in _private_ , but thanks for blowing that for me," Stiles says snippily.

Dean's blasé demeanor falls away into one of guilt. "Oh. Sorry, kid."

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles mutters, then faces his father. "So when I very first touched Emma, this big bright light thing went off between us and we went to Deaton and apparently it's because her spark recognized my spark and babies don't have control of that yet so it just went off and yeah, I'm apparently like a witch or something, which I did not know until today, so."

"You didn't know you were a witch?" Derek asks, frowning.

Stiles turns to stare at him. "Did _you?_ "

Derek shrugs a shoulder. "Yeah. You smell like one sometimes. When you don't take your Adderall, I think."

Stiles gapes at him. " _You knew I was a witch and you didn't tell me?_ "

"I thought you knew, how did you not know?" Derek argues.

"Because no one ever told me!"

"Boys," the Sheriff cuts in. "That's enough. Back to the man or creature who murdered Emma's coven please."

"Right. Sorry, Dad. Derek, I'm not done with you," Stiles says.

Derek huffs, rolls his eyes.

"We've got some theories," Sam says, eyeing the pair across from him. "We'll need to do some research to try and narrow it down."

Stiles perks up. "Research? I can help with that. I am a Google-fu master. Just point me in the right direction."

Sam smiles at him a little. "Okay. So, Stiles and I can head up the research front. And maybe everybody else can keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Anybody new in town, anybody acting strange."

"You mean besides you three?" Derek asks, apropos of a z-snap.

Stiles snorts trying to hold back a laugh.

"Ha ha," Dean says sarcastically.

Castiel leans into him and asks, "We're not acting strangely, are we?"

Stiles really does laugh out loud that time.

"Just you, buddy," Dean says, patting him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, it's why we keep you around."

Castiel seems confused, but accepts this nonetheless.

"I'll keep an ear and an eye out through the station and my deputies," the Sheriff says. "Perhaps the three of you can canvas the town."

Derek nods, but Dean throws up a hand. "Hold up. Don't you have a job to do during the day?" he asks of Derek.

"I don't have a job," Derek says, brutally honest.

"You don't have a job?" Dean demands. "How do expect to take care of a kid if you don't have a job?"

"I don't know, you seem like you managed pretty well for a few days," Derek says flatly.

"Why, you—"

"Ah, ah, ah, time out!" Stiles says, suddenly stepping in between them, body hovering over Emma's chair. "No angry yelling over the baby."

Derek and Dean both back off, but still seem stubborn about the whole thing. Emma for her part hasn't so much as twitched. The kid is full of formula and out like a light.

The Sheriff speaks up in the resounding silence. "Actually, I think I may have a solution to that."

All eyes turn to him and he continues, "I've been thinking about this for a little while now, and honestly, I can't see any downside to it. Derek, I think you should become a Deputy."

Stiles' jaw drops. Derek sort of looks like somebody smacked him with a wet fish.

Jonathan ignores them both and plows on. "You've lent your abilities to me on a couple of cases now and I figured you and Parrish could be partners, so no one would have to worry about any supernatural secrets being revealed anymore."

"Who's Parrish?" Sam asks.

" _What's_ Parrish?" Dean follows up.

"A Deputy and we don't know," Stiles says.

"You met him at the station today," the Sheriff says.

"You mean baby cop?" Dean says.

The Sheriff snorts and Stiles outright guffaws. Even Derek smirks.

"He's old enough to do his job and do it _well_ , trust me," the Sheriff assures. "I think he and Derek would work well together."

Stiles turns to his father then, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Dad…"

"What?" Jonathan asks defensively.

"You're trying to make a little supernatural squad on the police force," Stiles says, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"I am not—"

"Yes, you are, admit it!" Stiles says, racing back to his seat to plunk into it and jostle his father's shoulder. "Oh my god, you want your own little super-secret team that you can send after all the weird stuff."

"It would be useful, okay? Nobody would come to me with difficult-to-answer questions anymore."

Stiles hops back out of his seat and runs to the living room with a cry of, "I've gotta tell Lydia."

The Sheriff rolls his eyes at his son's antics.

Castiel watches him run off with a scrutinous eye, then says, "He's a very...animated boy."

"He doesn't sit still for long," Derek says in a deadpan.

"Aren't most teenagers glued to their cell phones?" Dean asks. "Why's he gotta go get his?"

"No cell phones at the dinner table," the Sheriff says simply. Then he adds, "But keep the volume turned all the way up in case an emergency happens. Same for me."

Stiles rushes back to the table, sliding into his chair with all the finesse of a drunk gazelle.

"Why, exactly, did you need to tell Lydia that?" the Sheriff inquires.

"Because she'll have my hide if she doesn't know the latest. Plus, she has a special interest in _Jordan_. She's helping him figure out what he is. They've been going through the bestiary."

"Bestiary?" Sam perks up. "You have a bestiary too?"

Stiles grins—coquettishly? Derek has never seen that look on Stiles' face before. Regardless he probably should have anticipated the next words out of the teen's mouth.

"You show me yours, I'll show you mine."

" _Stiles!_ " the Sheriff barks.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Stiles rapidly backtracks. "Oh my god—just—brain to mouth filter, I just—"

"Jesus, that is not something a father is ever meant to hear," the Sheriff groans.

Dean snickers, both at the Stilinskis and at his blushing brother.

Castiel leans over to Dean and says lowly, "I don't understand."

"It's innuendo, Cas," Dean explains. "Mine and yours referring to...you know…"

"No," Cas shakes his head, "I don't."

"Your junk, Cas. Your junk."

"Ah," the angel rights himself. A pause and then he leans back over, "Does that mean Stiles was making an advance on—"

"Yes, Cas," Dean says curtly. "Can we stop talking about it?"

Cas nods and sits upright again, attention back on Stiles, who is babbling apologies at Sam.

"Sam, I mean, Mr. Winchester, I mean, oh my god, I don't even know, I'm so sorry, I didn't think, it just came out, I didn't mean, _oh_ my _god_ , I'm so, _so_ sor—"

Derek seals a hand over Stiles' mouth, effectively stemming the flow of words.

"Derek," the Sheriff says wearily, "as far as I'm concerned—you're deputized."

"Just working toward the common good, sir," Derek says seriously.

Stiles yanks his hand away and glares daggers at him. "Oh, nuh-uh. Ye, who never makes jokes. You are not allowed to start making them at my expense."

"Who said I was joking?" Derek asks.

Stiles gapes, insulted.

Dean cracks up. It draws the attention of everyone else at the table. "Oh man," he says, wiping a tear away. "You guys aren't half bad."

"Told you," Stiles says, pointing a finger at him.

"Yeah, yeah…" Dean waves a hand. "So this Parrish guy. You don't know what he is?"

Stiles shrugs, the previous interaction already forgotten. "Nope. All we know is someone tried to burn him alive and it didn't take."

Sam and Dean blink.

"Wow," Sam says, "that's…"

"Not a half bad power," Stiles interjects. "I know right?"

"So who's Lydia?" Dean asks.

"Another member of the pack," Stiles says. "She's—"

"There's a pack?!" Dean interrupts harshly. "A pack of—of werewolves?"

Stiles looks at him like he hasn't just dropped a bomb on the man. "Well, there's only three werewolves, but yeah."

"So Lydia is another werewolf?" Sam inquires.

"No, Lydia is a banshee."

"A banshee?" Dean repeats, brow furrowed.

"What other pack members are there?" Sam asks.

Stiles frowns. "I'm not sure I should be telling you that."

"You shouldn't," Derek agrees.

Dean is unhappy about that, but Sam concedes the point. "Okay. That's fair."

"You're not going to go kill Lydia and Parrish now are you?" Stiles asks, alarmed by the thought.

"No," Sam assures. "No, of course not."

"You better not be lying," the Sheriff says, narrowing his eyes at the trio.

Castiel speaks up with, "I can assure you he's not. I'm an angel. I can tell."

"Do I even want to ask about the angel thing?" Jonathan asks, making a face.

"No," Dean and Sam say in unison.

"All right. Well. I have had enough of... _this_ for one night. Derek, I expect to see you at the station sometime in the next couple of days. I'll get started on gathering what I can about the deaths of Emma's family. Stiles, don't think I've forgotten about you. Sam, Dean, Castiel, nice to...sure. Good night."

"Night, Dad," Stiles says.

The Sheriff disappears around the corner and Derek's eyes immediately travel to Emma. She's still tuckered out as ever. Probably tired from all the...everything. She may not understand what's happening, but it's still a lot of excitement for one so small.

"I should get her home," Derek says.

Stiles is quick to his feet. "Yeah. Let's go get the bassinet. Will you guys keep an eye on Emma?"

"Of course," Sam says.

The duo scurries off (mainly Stiles does the scurrying) and Sam gets to his feet.

"Let's get some of these dishes up for Stiles, guys," he says.

"Yeah, okay," Dean replies.

Castiel locates the tupperware from where he spotted it earlier and passes it to Dean, who goes about preserving what's left, which, granted, is not a whole lot.

Stiles looks surprised that the mess is magically gone when he comes back in.

"Everything's in the dishwasher. Leftovers in the fridge," Sam informs him.

"Wow, thanks, guys." Stiles beams at them.

"You know how to put that thing together?" Dean asks Derek, when the werewolf appears with the pieces of a cherry wood bassinet stand and basket in one hand.

"Yes," Derek replies tersely.

"Don't worry, Dean," Stiles says, smiling cheesily. "Derek is a manly man. He can build anything."

Derek's eyes flit heavenward briefly. "Stiles. You have no idea what my mechanical abilities are."

"Actually, I have it on good authority that you built the bookshelves in your loft, so there."

Derek huffs. "Just give me your keys."

Stiles tosses his keys over, which Derek catches one handed. "I'll get the baby," Stiles calls after him.

"We're right behind you," Sam says. He follows Derek out the front door, Castiel close behind, Dean less so.

"Need any help, kid?" Dean asks.

"Got it, thanks," Stiles says, much less rudely than Derek had earlier, while he swaddles Emma in tightly.

Dean holds the door open for Stiles and shuts it once the teen is outside, baby, diaper bag, and all.

Derek is just shutting the hatch at the rear and he comes forward to take the carrier from Stiles as soon as he spots him. Stiles passes the carrier over to Derek, then slides the diaper bag and sack of bedding into the floorboard.

"We'll, um, see you guys some time tomorrow, I guess?" he says over his shoulder to the hunting trio, rounding the Jeep to the driver's side. "Sam, just text me, I guess?"

"Sure," Sam says.

Derek climbs into the back seat with Emma once she's strapped in and pulls the seat back into the upright position. Stiles leans across the console, yells "Bye!" and swings the opposite door shut.

The others are left standing there, slightly in awe, as they watch Stiles drive away at a completely safe speed.

Dean eventually says, "So I'm not crazy, right? Derek and Stiles are definitely an item?"

"I don't...think so…" Sam says thoughtfully.

Castiel adds, "Stiles talked about Derek. He says they are allies, and "maybe friends." I am not sure what that means."

"I doubt he does either," Dean says.

"I really don't think Sheriff Stilinski would let Stiles date a man that much older than him while he's still underage," Sam says.

"There go your chances then, huh, Sammy Boy?" Dean teases.

Sam sighs. "Really, Dean? I'm not interested in a teenager. Give me some credit."

Dean only laughs as they get in the Impala.

 

Stiles helps get Emma and her new bed-to-be inside without having to be asked. Derek continues to be impressed with the ease with which Stiles of all people—loud, flailing, clumsy _Stiles_ —seems to handle babies. He's honestly waiting for him to trip.

But Stiles doesn't. There's a certain confidence that comes with his movements and Derek thinks that might be less to do with the limited experience he's had with babies and more to do with that fierce instinct of Stiles' to protect at all costs. It's almost like something in his brain has flipped and he's gone from a teenage accident waiting to happen to a smoothly operating nurturing machine running on autopilot. Derek figures thinking is what gets Stiles into a lot of trouble in the first place so it's probably good that he's running on instinct here.

In the loft Derek goes about putting the bassinet stand together while Stiles takes the time to investigate the diaper bag further.

There's baby shampoo and lotion, along with what Stiles had already uncovered for earlier use: powder, wipes, and as Dean promised, enough diapers and formula for a few more days. Stiles rummages through the bag seeing what else is in there. It seems like the basics, something a mom would pack for a weekend trip, although with increased amounts of the necessities. He does find something rather interesting embroidered inside. It's a pentagram, clearly meant for protection. Perhaps it worked, since Emma made it through a car accident and whatever came before, even if Tara didn't. There is also one item of note in the bottom of the diaper bag: a locket. Stiles figures out pretty quickly that the necklace is an heirloom when he opens it and a small picture is inside. The picture is of eighteen people, none other than Emma herself in the arms of the woman who is undoubtedly her mother. This must be the coven—all dead now, save Emma. He takes a moment to look at each of their faces, rubs his thumb along the locket's edge—a silent apology for what happened to them.

He shoves the necklace in his pocket for now. With another glance at the pentagram, Stiles makes a mental note to look up more protection symbols and packs the contents away once more.

"All right. Bed time!" Stiles says, rising and fetching Emma from the carrier. He glances over to see the bassinet standing perfectly in its frame beside the bed and smiles at Derek. "Knew you were handy."

Derek gives him an unimpressed look.

Stiles only smiles further and sways with Emma as he pads over to the basket.

"So bedtime routines are important," Stiles says. "It will help a baby fall asleep quicker when they are feeling sleepy. Do you remember anything your mom used to do with Cora?"

Derek shakes his head. "I never helped with that part."

"Okay. Well, what a lot of people do is burn off some energy, if she has any, which after all of today's excitement, she seems pretty drained already. But just for future reference. Play with some toys or bounce around for a while or something."

Derek nods.

"Some other stuff people do is bath time or just washing her face and hands with a wet rag, taking care of teeth and gums, that sort of thing. Which you should do at some point anyway."

Another nod.

"And then it's pretty much just pajamas and your choice of a bedtime story or a song or a walk around the house or whatever. Whatever works for you two."

Derek's head bobs one more time and there's a considering pause before he says, "Let's get her cleaned up and changed. Then...I don't have any books or…"

"Do you know any stories or songs?" Stiles asks.

This time he receives a shake of the head. "Not...not off the top of my head, no. I could look one up?"

"Don't worry about it, big man. We'll pick up some books tomorrow. Nursery rhymes and all that good stuff. I got something for tonight. Want to go grab a washcloth?"

Derek does just that and once the cloth has been utilized and returned to the bathroom, they put her in pajamas. The PJs have little smiling yellow stars on them; something about them seems to rub him the wrong way, but Derek can't place what exactly. Then Stiles cradles Emma close and begins to pace.

Derek watches them closely, assuming Stiles is going to just walk her around until she sleeps. Emma blinks up at him interestedly, rather awake after all of the cleaning ministrations. Stiles smiles down at her and, much to Derek's surprise, begins to sing.

Stiles' voice is soft and Emma is enraptured by the enchanting sound. The thought gives Derek pause and he wonders if maybe it really is an enchantment. If Stiles is doing it without even knowing. But no. Looking at them Derek thinks that it's just a natural fascination with Stiles drawing her in.

He can relate.

The song Stiles chooses is not one Derek has heard before. He vaguely remembers some of the songs from his childhood, some were even pack-specific (he wonders if that's the sort of thing Peter cared to save somewhere), and this definitely wasn't one of them.

The lullaby is lilting and happy:

 

The bells ring in the night, my love

The bells ring just for you

Their music carries across the town

Their music, meant just for you

 

The moon glows in the night, my love,

The moon glows just for you

Its light spreads o'er hill and vale

Its light, meant just for you

 

The wind blows in the night, my love

The wind blows just for you

Its touch brushes the trees so high

Its touch, meant just for you

 

The birds won't sing in the night, my love

The birds won't sing for you

Their song must wait until the dawn

Their song, meant just for you

 

Stiles sings it twice and Emma drops off peacefully. The teen is careful when he lays her down in the bassinet. She stays blissfully asleep.

"I've never heard that lullaby before," Derek says softly.

"You wouldn't have. It's from my mother's family," Stiles says, eyes lingering on Emma a moment longer.

When he turns around, his soft expression is gone. He points at the couch.

Right. Stiles is mad at him.

They don't sit on the couch, but stand in front of it, keeping their voices lowered.

"You knew I was a witch?" he repeats like a whole hour hasn't passed since the dinner table.

Derek shrugs, arms crossed, and looks at the spiral staircase. "I've never really known a witch. A few passed through when I was a kid and I remember how they smelled. You don't...you don't usually smell like that, but there's been moments... I don't know. I don't know if it's tied to your Adderall or… or something else."

"How about when I used mountain ash at the club? Did you smell it then?"

"Yes. But I thought it might just be the ash. The smell of magic doesn't necessarily come from a human."

Stiles is still frowning. "The smell of magic. And what exactly does magic smell like?"

Derek meets Stiles' gaze. "Depends. There's different variations. Death doesn't smell like growth, healing doesn't smell like destruction. But all magic, no matter what kind, has the underlying smell of earthen spices. Like...like dirt and clove and peppercorn and red wine. And something else. A sharp scent. I can't place it."

"And witches smell like that?" he asks.

"If they're practicing. A witch can smell like nothing more than a normal human if they never use magic. There's also this...copper smell witches usually have when they're actively casting. Like someone heated up a copper wire."

"So you smelled that on me? This copper-spice smell? When? What other times did you smell it on me and not say anything?"

Derek doesn't wince at the accusation; he works too hard at being detached for that sort of thing. "When we were in the pool. I think. The chlorine smell was overwhelming, but...I thought I caught a whiff at times."

Stiles' gaze drills into him.

Derek goes on.

"At Deaton's, when my arm was infected and you brought me back to consciousness. But that whole place has a low-key magic smell.

"The time at the Sheriff's station with Matt and the kanima. I think you might have...given me a boost when I was trying to push the venom out of my system. The gun powder and blood-copper smell in the station though...I wasn't sure.

"When we gave Scott his tattoo, but the smell of charred flesh did a pretty good job of convincing me I was imagining it.

"The night the Alphas attacked us at the hospital, when you revived me in the elevator. I just thought it was Jennifer's scent lingering.

"...And in the desert. At the church."

"When you were dying," Stiles goes right ahead and says it.

"Yes. In my defense there were a lot of other things going on in almost all those occurrences. I didn't really have time to dwell on it."

"I realize that, Derek," Stiles snaps. "When aren't our lives a complete shit show?"

Derek holds his gaze. "There are moments."

"Few and fleeting," Stiles says. The teen turns away, runs his hands through his hair. "God, Derek. All those fucking times and you really didn't think to mention that to me at some point?"

"Half the time I thought I was imagining it," Derek says.

"And the other half of the time?" Stiles demands, temper flaring.

"The other half of the time," Derek seethes, temper flaring in kind, "I was thinking that this reckless teenager was _really_ going to get himself killed if he started practicing magic!"

A moment of silence passes as the tension in the room peaks.

Stiles' jaw jumps as he grinds his teeth. He's about to lay into Derek, really tear into him, but Derek speaks again before Stiles manages to unclench his jaw.

"So many have died, Stiles."

And just like that Stiles' anger derails.

"So many," Derek says quietly.

Stiles understands then. It's not that Derek has a lack of faith in Stiles or in Stiles' abilities, whatever they may be; Derek simply can't stand the thought of losing one more person.

Stiles forgets sometimes. Not that it's something one could ever forget _completely_ , but sometimes, in the moment, Stiles will forget that Derek has already seen so much heartache and tragedy even before Stiles and Scott and everyone else got sucked into the mess. Derek hasn't just lost Erica and Boyd—hasn't only felt the loss of Aiden, of Allison. Derek has lost his entire family. He's lost Paige. He's lost Cora twice. And Peter three.

Stiles thinks of his mother and can't imagine—

 _Can't imagine_ —

He had said it once himself.

_Death doesn't happen to you, it happens to everyone around you._

And death has happened to Derek Hale too many times already.

Stiles wordlessly lets the argument fall away. There was never really one to begin with.

Instead he says, "I am a witch now, though. I know now. I can't take it back."

"I know," Derek says with a solemn dip of his chin.

"I'm going to start practicing, Derek."

"I know," Derek says again, something like sorrow written in his features.

It's quiet for a moment as they look at each other.

"I'm sorry," Stiles finally says, because he feels like someone needs to say it on behalf of the entire universe. "That everything is this way. I'm sorry it's like this for you, Derek."

Derek shakes his head. "It's not your fault, Stiles. You don't have to apologize for anything."

"No," Stiles says, brighter than the moment before. "No, I think there's definitely something in there for me to apologize about. A year and a half of my shenanigans, Derek, I can pretty much guarantee you I owe you _at least_ one apology. I mean, I say sorry to my dad probably ten times a week. The man is a saint, I'm telling you."

A small smile graces Derek's lips as he watches Stiles return to his usual self, hands gesturing wide, mouth running non-stop.

Before Stiles leaves he palms a tarnished gold locket into Derek's hand. He holds his hand against Derek's for a beat longer than necessary, eyes searching Derek's. Derek isn't sure what he's looking for—or what he finds—but Stiles drops his hand and tells him, "Take good care of that for her."

Derek promises, "I will."

Stiles' scent lingers over Emma even after the Jeep has torn out of the parking lot, fragile cargo left behind and careful driving forgotten. Derek has the fleeting thought that, if Emma were a werewolf and not a witch, she would probably require something of Stiles' to sleep properly. She would need his scent just as much as Derek's. That's a strange thought for Derek to wrap his head around, so he doesn't. Instead he lingers over the bassinet for a long, long time, just looking.

Derek opens the locket to see what it holds.

He realizes then what bothered him about the smiling stars on Emma's pajamas. It's that they're so utterly unfair. For these little anthropomorphic stars to be so happy in the face of all that has happened—for Tara Jessop to have been happy when she bought them just a few short months ago—it all just seems like they're mocking a tragedy. When Tara saw those smiling stars, she probably smiled too; she didn't know what was to become of her and her family.

Derek can't know what will come any more than Tara did. But he knows one thing for certain.

He won't let another family member slip through his hands.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks! Did you know babies need a lot of stuff? Because they do! 
> 
> That's pretty much all this chapter is, acquiring baby stuff. Oh yeah, and that one life-altering event for Stiles. :D
> 
> Oh, and I picked the fan favorite for Stiles' name? Because it seemed pretty appropriate for this story in particular? Yeah? Yeah.

The next day Stiles bustles into Derek's apartment at 9:00 a.m. like the miniature hurricane he is. The first thing he does is walk over to Emma in her bassinet and tickle her tummy. Emma obligingly blows a large spit bubble at him. The second thing he does is attack Derek with a sheet.

"What are you doing? Get off me," Derek grumbles, when Stiles starts fitting a sheet over his shoulder.

"Stop squirming. Is this the side you want to carry Emma on?"

"I guess? Can you _not?_ "

"Can _you_ not?"

"Stiles, what the hell?" Derek demands.

The teen whizzes around him, front to back, tugging and tucking and tying the sheet. When he's done he steps back and admires his handiwork.

Derek looks down at the sash and asks, "What the hell is this?"

"A baby sling. Duh," comes the response. "I looked up how to make one with a sheet on the internet last night so you could carry Emma around the store more easily."

"Oh," Derek says, immensely more okay with the addition to his person.

"You're welcome," Stiles says cheekily. He follows it up by announcing that Dean is coming over. "He wants to come shopping with us. He's bringing coffee and donuts."

"Great. I already ate," Derek says. "I've been up since five."

"There is always room for coffee and I know you'll find room for a donut, Derek," Stiles says, then rapidly shifting gears asks, "How did she do last night? Did she wake you up in the middle of the night to feed?"

Derek runs a hand groggily over his face. "Yeah. At like eleven, three, and five. She just fed again about twenty minutes ago. She'll need a diaper change in a minute."

"Huh. She must be going through a growth spurt," Stiles prattles. "Sounds like she's healthy. She's just a few days shy of fourteen weeks, but you know soon is when the real fun begins. She'll get more active and you may never get any sleep."

"Oh, goodie," Derek says sarcastically.

"Welcome to parenthood, Derek!"

"You are way too excited about this," Derek says, clearly not sharing Stiles' enthusiasm for little to no sleep.

Stiles shrugs. "I like babies. And you know...this one is...gonna stick around. So. Yeah. I'm excited."

Derek understands then that Stiles' wholehearted vigor toward Emma stems from his stints with the safe-haven babies—the babies he cared for and never got to keep and watch grow up or probably even know what happened to them. Maybe Derek will cut him a little slack.

Stiles has Emma in the crook of his arm, bouncing her gently, when Dean arrives with Castiel in tow.

"Sammy's staying at the motel to get started on the research," he says. "Cas wanted to come see...whatever, I don't know."

"I am curious about infant care," Castiel informs them. "Angels do not have babies. It is not how we are made as we are simply wavelengths of intent."

Stiles blinks, then says, "You and I are going to sit down and have an angel-talk some time, Cas," seemingly uncaring of the fact that they all had a standoff last night.

Derek is a little more wary of the hunter and the angel being around again. He doesn't trust them and he doesn't _like_ them.

Dean sets the cardboard tray of coffees and the box of donuts down, then snatches Emma out of Stiles' arms.

"Hey, pumpkin pants, how you doing?" he says cheerfully.

Stiles shoots a look at Derek that says "let him" then goes over to the grub. Derek rolls his eyes and appropriates of cup of coffee. He does wind up stealing a donut or two out of the box as well.

They take Derek's mom car ("stop it, Stiles") to the local Babies 'R' Us/Toys 'R' Us superstore the next town over. It's Stiles and Dean that sit in the back to continue their doting on Emma. That leaves Castiel in the front seat with Derek, which is odd and uncomfortable for the werewolf. The angel is just...strange. Derek can't really get a read on him, which is highly disconcerting for someone with heightened senses.

Shopping is an adventure. Stiles has... _papers_. Just...lots of papers. Print-outs and comparisons and lists. He seems to know what he's doing however as he leads them to and fro around the store. Dean and Derek argue over basically everything from blankets to bottles to binkies. Stiles puts a restriction on the number of pink things they're allowed to buy due to gender stereotypes. Castiel keeps trying to get Derek to buy every single stuffed animal in the store.

"I just feel that the child should have a fair representation of the Animal Kingdom. It's an important part of your world."

"She doesn't need that many stuffed animals. Period."

"She doesn't _need_ two different pairs of white booties, but you got those, didn't you?" Dean says.

"Booties are practical. Toys are not."

"Don't be a sourwolf, Derek. _One_ more stuffed animal won't hurt. Cas, why don't you go see if you can find a wolf plushie?"

Cas nods, determination set in his brow, and wanders off to complete his given task.

"Really?" Dean asks of Stiles' choice in animals.

"Hush," Stiles tells him, already scanning the shelves for a specific diaper stacker.

Derek didn't even know diaper stackers existed until ten minutes ago.

Stiles pulls out one that appears to be a turtle, if the picture on the front is any indication. Derek lets him, because Stiles has already decided on a woodland creatures theme and because Derek is just letting him do what he wants. It's easier that way. He sort of likes the owl bedding Stiles picked out besides.

Surprisingly, Derek and Dean don't disagree about the choice of diaper genie at all. They are however embroiled in a heated debate about strollers, when Cas comes back with not one, but _three_ wolf plushies.

"Stiles, I found many wolves," he says, visibly pleased with himself.

"Good job," Stiles says and lets him toss all three of them in while the other two aren't looking. "Owls and frogs next, my man. Only one of each of those."

Stiles also sneaks a "Crazy Cuddly Wolf" playset featuring a Red Riding Hood doll among the accessories into the cart even though it's for ages 12 months to 3 years. He'll just hold onto it for later.

The teen also makes sure to get an even mix of cars, dinosaurs, butterflies, and flowers among the clothing pieces. He's going to make sure Emma can make her own choices about what she likes. He dares Derek or Dean to argue with him. Both men wisely keep their pie holes shut.

Stiles loses steam all of a sudden, eerily still and quiet as he stares at the shelf in front of him. Derek seems to be the only one to notice; Dean is still busy one row over trying to explain the purpose of one of those multicolored stacking plastic ring toys to Castiel (he's not having much luck).

"Stiles?" Derek asks quietly, eyes on the teen's face.

"They don't have the owl," Stiles replies nonsensically.

At least it doesn't make any sense until Derek finally follows his gaze and sees what he's seeing. Beside an empty place where Derek assumes the owls go is a brightly colored and cartoonishly painted wall clock.

It's a fox.

Derek glances back into the cart and surveys the contents. He sees rabbits; squirrels; owls; bears; turtles; birds; porcupines and hedgehogs; what he thinks might even be a badger on something called a "grobag." But no foxes. Not a single one.

Gently, Derek leans into Stiles' space and says, "I prefer digital over analog."

Just like that Stiles has snapped out of it.

"That'd be better anyway," he says, moving down the aisle. "The ticking might bother her if she's not used to it. Good call, Derek."

Neither of them speak of it again.

(Cas returns with a plush fox one time and Derek surreptitiously takes it from him before Stiles can notice and makes sure it doesn't find its way into the basket).

When Emma starts fussing for a bottle about halfway through the visit, it's Dean who volunteers to take her. Derek immediately shoots the idea down.

"I'm not going to run off with her," Dean growls.

"Does it surprise you that I don't believe you? Hunter," Derek says spitefully.

"I'm the one who brought her here!" Dean argues.

"Yes. Before you knew just who you were giving her to," Derek shoots back.

They're starting to draw attention. Castiel walks up with a distressed look on his face, a plush bird in each hand. Stiles figures it's up to him to stop this.

"Okay!" he says loudly, clapping his hands together. "Break time! Let's all go take a load off our feet! Come on. Shoo, shoo, shoo."

Stiles starts literally shooing them along with his hands, pulling the basket along behind him. Dean gets to feed the baby, Derek gets to keep an eye on Dean, and Stiles actually gets to take a minute to rest. Castiel is the only one who seems to lose out on the situation; he keeps wanting to go gather more stuffed animals. Stiles continually assures him as soon as they've changed Emma's diaper, he can go start looking for hedgehogs.

All in all they fill two carts and spend around four thousand dollars on their purchases. Dean balks at the amount; Derek doesn't bat an eye as he calmly slides his card through the reader.

"Debit or credit?" the cashier asks.

"Debit," Derek replies.

"Debit?!" Dean spits. "How the hell can you afford all this?! You don't even have a job!"

Derek pins him with a thin look. "Insurance policies."

Dean quickly swallows up any other words that may have spilled out. Dead family, burned alive. Right.

Stiles subtly pats Derek on the forearm, disguising it as leaning in to look at Emma.

"Somebody looks ready for a nap," he comments.

Derek grunts, which amusingly enough causes Emma to jerk her gaze toward his chest.

Stiles smiles at it.

The cashier gives him a funny look. "Aren't you the Sheriff's son?" she asks.

Said Sheriff's son blinks up at her. "Um. Yeah."

She nods her head like she's confirming this to herself. "I thought so. I'm Deputy Knowles' granddaughter. I recognized you from his retirement party. Your hair's longer."

"Oh, hey. Yeah, it is. Adrianna, right? How's it going?" Stiles says, her face clicking in his memory.

"It's going."

Adrianna is just a year older than Stiles if he remembers correctly. She goes to another school, so Stiles has only ever seen her at Sheriff's Department functions. Her grandfather fortunately retired before the supernatural shit-storm hit Beacon Hills. The lucky bastard got out in time.

Adrianna glances from Dean and Castiel lurking nearby to Stiles and Derek, a sly sort of look on her face. Stiles is thinking it's probably not a good thing she recognized him.

"Would you like the larger items you've pulled to be delivered to your home or taken to your car by a staff member?" she asks. "Delivery charge is $50 an item."

"We'll pay for delivery." Derek says.

"When would you like them delivered?"

"This afternoon."

"That'll be another $250 for rush."

"That's fine."

Dean's jaw drops from where he's listening in. Stiles grins and meanders over to him.

"No, really," the older man says. "Just how much money does this guy have?"

Stiles shrugs. "I'm not sure. But Peter had $117 million tucked away, so...Probably somewhere around there. He never spends any of it either from what I can tell."

Dean's mouth impossibly drops open even wider.

Derek comes striding over to them with the baskets, which Stiles take back from him so Derek can fish out his keys.

Emma falls asleep in the car on the way home.

 

It's a whirlwind of activity when they get back to the loft. Everyone bustles back and forth, unpacking and putting away the myriad of items they just purchased. Sam arrives in tandem with the deliveries bearing down on them and immediately gets tossed into the havoc.

It's four o'clock when things finally settle down. Stiles orders pizza and they all lounge around Derek's apartment, exhausted, taking turns with the baby (mainly Stiles and Dean taking her from Derek and each other), reading, researching, or doing homework (that one's just Stiles).

At some point Stiles glances at the time on his phone and grows tight-lipped.

He stands, drawing the attention of the men. Emma is sleeping away peacefully on Derek's chest, when the werewolf asks, "Stiles?"

"You good for the night? I've gotta go. I've got school tomorrow. I'll come by after though."

Derek frowns at him. He's talking in a stilted manner, too quickly even for him and he's avoiding making eye contact. His hands are moving jerkily as he packs away his things with haste. He's also doing that thing where he says a bunch of sentences, but doesn't connect them, an easy way for humans to lie by telling the truth and leaving out the cause-and-effect of it—something the clever human figured out rather quickly, as Derek recalls.

"Stiles," Derek says. "Where are you going?"

"Where do you think, Derek?" Stiles says, like Derek's being ridiculous.

It's not an answer. And therefore not a lie.

"Stiles," Derek says, demands, but the teen is already slipping out the door.

"Night, everyone!"

He's gone.

The four men stare at the door for long moment, then Dean says, "Kid didn't even say goodbye to Emma. Something's up."

Derek, still boring holes into the door, says, "He's hiding something. Wherever it is he's going."

"Want me to follow him?" Dean says, already rising to his feet.

Derek shoots him a glare. "In that loud car of yours?"

"Hey, there is nothing wrong with my baby," Dean snaps.

"I can go," Castiel says. "I do not need human means of transportation to follow him. He will never know I am there."

Dean and Derek exchange a look and Derek nods his agreement.

"All right, Cas. You go then,” Dean says. "But stay out of sight. See what he's up to."

"He's not _up to_ anything," Derek bites out.

"Oh, yeah?" Dean says. "Then why didn't he just come out with it and say where he was going?"

"Dean," Sam says, urging his brother to calm down with his eyes.

"I'm not saying he's up to anything _bad_ ," Dean states. "But he's definitely up to something _secret_ and in my experience secrets usually get people hurt."

"Maybe it's secret because it's private, Dean," Sam says in Stiles' defense. The teen doesn't strike Sam as all that nefarious; his brother is overreacting.

"You saying somebody shouldn't follow him?" Dean asks him.

Stiles may seem like a decent kid, but still… With all that's going on, can they be blamed?

"No. I'm not saying that," Sam says, turning back to his laptop. It's an old sign that he's ceding the point to Dean.

"Good. Cas, go after him."

"Yes, Dean." A fluttering sound occurs and then the angel is suddenly gone.

Derek stares at the space Castiel had been in, frowning.

"Wiggy, right?" Dean says, sitting back down and picking up his beer.

Derek only raises an eyebrow at him.

 

Meanwhile, Castiel is waiting for the Stilinski boy to stop driving. When he does finally park his car, Cas finds it's at a familiar place: the veterinary clinic.

It's after hours and Stiles angrily checking the clock before fleeing the loft makes a lot of sense suddenly.

He goes to the back door again, uses the key to get in again, and disappears inside. Castiel teleports to the interior of the building, just outside the front door of the exam room they had been in earlier.

Dr. Deaton is within and the angel listens as Stiles comes in through the back and stops on the polished industrial floor.

"Stiles," Deaton says without looking up. "I've been expecting you."

"Gee, I wonder _why_ ," Stiles says rudely. "Do you think...could it possibly be because you kept the fact that I'm a fucking _witch_ from me?"

Deaton is calm, as he continues to wipe the counters down. He doesn't turn to look at Stiles.

"I never kept anything from you, Stiles."

"Oh, what, because I never _asked?_ " Stiles spits. "Don't fucking _lie_ to me anymore, Deaton!"

"I'm not lying to you. I never have," the man says, dropping his cloth in the sink and finally turning around to look at the young man. "I never kept this from you, Stiles. I was merely honoring the wishes of the person who was."

"Oh, yeah and who was that?"

"Your mother."

Stiles blanches. He goes cold, the world coming to a stop.

"My...my mother?"

Deaton nods once, gazing at the gleaming edge of the exam table before him. "Claudia was a dear friend to both myself and to Talia Hale before her death. She knew what we were and we knew what she was. It was mutual trust and respect that we both kept each other's secrets and it was friendship that allowed us to confide in one another over things not just anyone can discuss."

Stiles stares at him in uncertainty. "She was…"

"She was a witch, Stiles," Deaton says gently. "She used to belong to a coven. But then she met Jonathan Stilinski."

Stiles is absolutely stricken by this news. "Did...did Dad know…?"

"No," Deaton says gently, "Claudia kept it from him for all her days."

" _Why?_ "

"You have to understand how drastically the path of Claudia's life changed when she met your father. She loved him from the first time she saw him, you know."

"Y-yeah, I—" Stiles breaks off to swallow down the lump in his throat. "At th-the...the Guns and Hoses charity fight. They sat at the same table."

Deaton nods. "She knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him from that very first night. And she knew that would mean she would have to leave everything she was behind."

Realization washes over Stiles in a cool wave and he sighs softly. "She left her coven so she could be with him. Like Benjamin Hale left the pack. So he could marry Annabelle."

Deaton nods once more. "Covens are very particular. They draw strength from their closeness, much the same way werewolf packs do. You either marry in and become part of the coven—or you walk away forever."

"Mom didn't want Dad to be part of her coven."

"She didn't want him to be part of any of it. It's dangerous to be involved in the supernatural, as you well know. With your father being in law enforcement she thought he had plenty of that already."

"She was going to keep it from him forever…"

"Yes. And she would have succeeded, I imagine. If she had lived. If the Hales had lived. But you already know that's not how the story went."

"Yeah...yeah…" Stiles pauses, thinking. "So mom's...coven...her family. They disowned her?"

Deaton nods gravely. "They took it very seriously when she chose a normal life over them. Hadn't you ever wondered why you never met any of your mother's family?"

"I guess," Stiles says. "I just kind of figured she didn't have any."

"For all intended purposes—she didn't."

Stiles shakes his head suddenly. "You said Mom was the one keeping this from me. Was she just never going to tell me what I was?"

"No, Stiles," Deaton says calmly, as if he were soothing a panicked animal. "She would have told you when you started discovering your powers. She wanted you to have a normal childhood and then be able to make the choice whether you wanted to pursue your powers or not, when the time came."

Stiles snorts harshly. "Guess that didn't work out, huh."

"As I said, a lot of things changed when the Hales died. Beacon Hills became unstable and unprotected."

"Yeah. Yeah, it did," Stiles says angrily. "And you didn't think that maybe _then_ would have been a good time to tell me about this? The cat was already out of the bag, Deaton. My "normal" life was already over. You could have told me! I could have been practicing all this time. I—People _died_ , Deaton, and maybe I could have saved some of them!"

Deaton remains calm even in the face of Stiles' frustration and anger and blame. "I was just trying to honor your mother's wishes, Stiles."

"That's bullshit and you know it! You said it yourself! Everything changed when the Hales died and you should have just fucking told me!"

"It was not my place," Deaton says simply.

"It's never your place! All you do is sit back and watch people die, Deaton!"

Deaton surges forward suddenly, loudly slamming his hands down on the exam table and leaning over it, eyes alight with fury. "And do you think that has been _easy_ for me? Standing by and watching people die? _Innocent_ people? I did not choose my role in life, it was _given_ to me, but I have honored it every _single_ day I have been on this earth, even when I wished I didn't have to. But I _had_ to, Stiles. Do you understand? I _had_ to. It was not my place to decide the fate of the town. I am an _advisor_. I had to let things play out the way they did, because to interfere would have upset the very balance of nature itself and it would have been _catastrophic_. Just because you have the power to change fate doesn't mean that you _should_. _That_ is the price a druid must pay to be able to help when the time _does_ come for it. And I _have_ helped since then. You have _no idea_ what I have done in the name of good since Scott came to power, once I was finally free to act. You have _no idea_ , Stiles, so don't act like you can stand there and judge me for honoring the wishes of the dead!"

Stiles stares at Deaton, wide-eyed and speechless. Deaton's chest is heaving as he breathes through his outburst; Stiles never thought he'd see the day Deaton displayed an extreme emotion. But there it is.

The druid abruptly pulls himself together, straightening up and perfunctorily smoothing his clothes. He clears his throat and in his usual level tone of voice says, "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate."

"It's...okay…" Stiles says cautiously. "I...I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have...assumed things."

Deaton nods curtly, an acceptance of the peace-offering. Then he turns and goes into a high cabinet. Stiles glimpses old looking books and watches as Deaton pulls one out—without even having to search for it. He sets it down on the cold metal between them and slides it toward the teen.

"What's this?" Stiles asks, reaching for it.

"Your mother's grimoire," Deaton says.

Stiles' hand freezes, hovering above the aged book.

Deaton says, "It's everything she wanted you to have should you have chosen to pursue witchcraft. As it stands, I think it's best to give it to you now. You do know everything now, after all. Claudia wouldn't have wanted to wait to give this to you, once you discovered your powers. She would have wanted you to have this, so it could guide you. That is...if you _are_ choosing a life as a witch."

The veterinarian says it like it's bargaining with the devil. Stiles supposes it maybe sort of is, witchcraft and all. He's not really sure how that works or what's true.

His choice is pretty obvious here, regardless.

Stiles smirks a little. "In for a penny, in for a pound. I'm all in, Deaton. I couldn't just walk away from this. You know that."

Deaton returns the smirk. "I thought as much, yes." Deaton taps the grimoire, sliding it a little closer to Stiles. "Take this. It will be the best teacher you have. I'm a druid, not a witch, so there will be some things I can't help you with. But I will be more than glad to _help_ you where I can, Stiles."

The boy looks down at the book for a long span of silence, then finally takes it in hand. It's strange and probably a little silly, but it sort of feels like he's found a piece of himself he didn't know he was missing.

"Thanks, Deaton," Stiles says quietly, eyes glued to the gold pentagram on the cover of his mother's last gift to him. "Sorry I was so...mad or whatever."

"I understand where your emotion was coming from. I'm very sorry things didn't go differently in this regard."

Stiles huffs, not really a laugh, but some sort of sign that somebody somewhere must think this is funny.

"I better head home. I'll see you later, Deaton."

"Goodbye, Stiles."

Stiles leaves through the back and clambers into his Jeep. He sits in the driver's seat just staring at the book, totally unaware of the eavesdropper that has followed him into his car until Castiel speaks.

"A grimoire is a very dangerous thing in the wrong hands."

"Holy sh— _Jesus!_ " Stiles executes the flail to end all flails when the angel is suddenly just _there_ in the passenger seat next to him, speaking to him in a normal tone of voice as if nothing about him being there were abnormal.

"What the _hell_ , Castiel!" Stiles screeches. "Where did you even come from? What the _fuck?_ "

"I followed you," Castiel states simply.

Stiles blinks. "You followed—" Stiles' eyes thin. "You were in there the whole time, weren't you?"

"Yes. I heard every word."

Stiles sighs raggedly. "That was supposed to be a private conversation, you know."

"I know," Castiel says with a nod, "but I was sent anyway."

Stiles rounds on him, eyebrows raised incredulously. " _Sent?_ "

"Yes. By Dean and Derek."

Stiles makes an unholy noise of frustration that causes Castiel to frown at him in concern and he asks, "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm just fine. _Peachy_ ," Stiles snipes. "You know, I just—just found out I was a witch. Found out my _mom_ was a witch and _hid it from everyone._ Found out she left me this grimoire so I could learn to be a witch "if I wanted," which turned out not to be a choice for me at all. Oh, and let's see, I just found out that even after all this time Derek _still_ doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me—which is _a lot_ because he's a _werewolf_ —and! The new hunter in town doesn't trust me either, which is just great because it will probably result in me getting thrown down some stairs and beaten to shit in a basement again. I'm. Just. Great. Thanks."

Stiles finishes his rant by hitting his hands on the steering wheel, then tucking them across his chest and snorting through his nose like an angry bull.

Castiel's frown is deeper than Stiles has probably ever seen it in their twenty-four hours of acquaintance, which is saying something, because the guy seriously frowns a lot.

"What?" Stiles snaps.

"Dean will not hurt you unless he has reason to," Cas says. "It is why I warned you about the grimoire."

"Yeah, well, in my experience hunters tend to _find_ reasons."

"Dean and Sam are not like that."

"Am I supposed to believe you because you're an angel or something?" Stiles quips.

"No. You are supposed to believe me because I am telling the truth."

Stiles throws his hands up. "How does anyone communicate with you—ever? It's like talking to a robot who doesn't compute _anything_."

"I am sorry that my lack of understanding bothers you," Castiel says gravely. "I do not have a lot of human interaction outside of the Winchesters. I will try to do better."

"No, no, don't…" Stiles waves a hand at him. "Don't go changing on my account. You're fine the way you are, I'm sure. Dean seems to have no trouble interpreting you."

Cas nods. "Dean and I share a profound bond."

Stiles' brow crinkles. "What the hell does _that_ mean?"

"It means we are connected in a way that no one else is." The angel pauses suddenly. His eyelashes flutter as if he just woke up and heard what he said. "At least...we were. I am not so sure anymore."

"Right. Anyway…" Stiles says. He is so not touching that one. His eyes travel back to the book propped up on the steering wheel. "So this...this is important, huh?"

"Yes. Very," Castiel says, weighted. "Like any power, the spells within can be used for good or for evil."

"Well, I don't plan on turning evil," Stiles says, flipping to a random page.

Castiel averts his eyes. "It's not always something you planned."

Stiles glances at him, but doesn't want to dig up old skeletons, especially if they're evil. He decides he's not touching that one either. He turns his attention back to the book, eyes scanning over the text curiously. He flips a page or two and notices a distinct mixture of symbols and alphabets.

"There's a lot of different languages in here," Stiles comments.

Castiel leans in ( _way_ too close) to look on with Stiles. "Yes. It seems your mother was very advanced."

Stiles chuffs. "Of course she was...and she could have taught me all of this herself if…"

The brick of pages falls open suddenly, under its own weight, to the inside of the front panel. There's a note there in handwriting Stiles would recognize anywhere.

_To my sweet Meonenim,_

_I know that I am sick and that I will not recover from this illness. My time left here on this earth is short and so I am writing this to you now and giving this book to Alan for safe-keeping. I am trusting him with the most precious thing in my life: your life. I know he will give it to you when the time is right and when he does you will have a big decision to make. I hope that whatever you choose, it makes you happy._

_This grimoire, my Book of Shadows, will serve you well if you choose the path of witchcraft. I know you will excel at it and become a great witch one day. If you never glance at a page of spells, you will still become a great man._

_I wish that I could stay with you. I wish that I could teach you myself. But I cannot, my sweet Meonenim. I need you to understand why. Should you study the craft, you will eventually discover that there were ways I could have saved myself, magicks that could have allowed me to live._

Stiles' breath hitches horribly in his throat.

_Please do not be upset with me, Meonenim, but I simply could not do that. To use magic again for so selfish a reason after more than a decade since renouncing my coven would have brought down a wrath upon you and your father the likes of which I couldn't bear to be responsible for. Yes, I could have stopped it, yet I chose to die and leave you, Meonenim. But I chose this because it would protect you better than I ever could have. I'm so sorry, baby. Please forgive me. I hope that you can understand, that one day if you have children of your own you'll see what I always saw when I looked at you and you'll finally understand why I did what I did. Even if you never have children, I hope you come to understand the choices I have made._

_Please be gentle with your father if you ever tell him about this. And give him all of my love._

_I love you, my sweet Meonenim. Always and forever._

_Mom_

"Shit," Stiles mutters, tears falling freely down his face. " _Shit_."

A hand touches his shoulder gently and he jerks back to see Castiel leaned in close and face drawn in concern.

"I am not good at comfort. Wounds that are not physical are...hard to heal. But, if it helps for you to know…She is happy. This I know for certain."

Stiles mouth crumples and he latches onto to Castiel suddenly, wrapping his arms around his neck and squeezing the angel tight as he cries. Cas is startled by it, but after a long moment of carefully considering it, he places his arms around the boy's shoulders and grips him tightly through his tears.

When they return to the loft, Derek is just laying Emma down in her bassinet (there's _no_ way he was struggling through constructing a crib today, thanks). His head turns toward Stiles and the angel and the first scent that hits him is the cloying scent of foreign magic; the next scent that hits him is the salty sting of tears. He's in front of them in an instant, hands gripping Stiles' arms and teeth aimed at Cas.

"What happened?" he growls.

Castiel blinks confusedly and leans away from the randomly ferocious werewolf.

Closer Derek can smell the animal clinic on them and when he glances down, he sees that the strange red book in Stiles' hands is what the magic smell is coming from.

Stiles jerks out of his grip; it's unexpected enough that he succeeds.

"Why don't you just ask your little spy you sent, Derek? Dean?" Stiles accuses.

Dean, still leaned back in a chair, shrugs when Stiles looks over at him. "I'm not your friend, kid."

"Yeah, well apparently neither is Derek," Stiles says lowly, storming past the stunned werewolf.

"You're...mad," Derek announces as he puzzles it out.

Stiles stops halfway to Emma and turns around slowly. "Really, Derek? _Really?_ Yes, I'm mad!"

Sam and Dean both wince at the shouting.

Emma grumbles behind him and Stiles glances at her briefly before stomping up to Derek and getting in his face to hiss in a low whisper.

"Yes, I'm mad, _Derek_. To find out that you don't trust me even after all this time? After all that we've been through together? So you send a spy after me to make sure I'm not about to—what? Turn on you? Do you really think I'd do that, Derek? Or does it not matter that it's me? Do you still mistrust _everyone_ on the whole planet _so_ much that you can't even let me go confront Deaton in peace? Huh? Is that it?"

Derek's nostrils flare, a sure sign that he's steadily growing angrier by the second. "One," he says tersely like he's talking around a bootstrap, "you didn't mention you were going to confront Deaton, you just left, acting really weird—even for you—so _forgive me_ for being worried about what the hell was going on with you and two—I _do_ trust you, Stiles. But there has been someone systematically killing every witch associated with the Jessop family, which—as of yesterday—is a bill you fit. So get over your little drama with Deaton and realize that you could be a target and that it was best if somebody made sure you got where you were going without _dying_. I wouldn't have even agreed to let them send that _hunter's_ angel after you, if I didn't think he would have more reason to protect you than kill you. I _trust_ you, Stiles, but I don't trust anybody else."

That's a rather startling statement coming from Derek Hale. And surely that last bit is an exaggeration. He's got to trust _somebody else_. Scott or the Sheriff or...maybe not too many other people.

"Okay," Stiles replies lamely, not really able to come up with a response that he thinks would do that confession justice.

"Okay," Derek repeats sarcastically. "So did you just come here to yell at me or was there something else?"

"I was giving Castiel a ride back."

"Cas didn't need a ride, kid," Dean says.

Stiles turns a bewildered look on Castiel, then back to Dean. "What?"

"Cas can angel-teleport. He didn't need a ride. He didn't need one to follow you in the first place," Dean says matter-of-factly.

"But—Oh. That's how you got in my car," Stiles says. "I thought you could like phase through solid objects or something."

"No. I am not capable of passing through solid objects. But they still present no obstacle to me so long as they are not guarded against angelic entry."

"You could have mentioned that," Stiles deadpans.

"My apologies. I was enjoying our ride together."

Dean rolls his eyes, then aims a question at the angel. "Hey, Cas, what happened to staying out of sight anyway?"

"The book," Castiel says, pointing to the very item tucked under Stiles' arm.

"What book?" Sam asks leaning forward in his chair, curious.

"It's my mother's grimoire…" Stiles says slowly, looking at the tome in question.

"Your m—" Sam cuts himself off, straightening up, and awkwardly clearing his throat. "That's...uh…"

"Weird?" Stiles says. "My mother was a witch and I didn't even know it. She left this with Deaton for me though. I was supposed to get it...when I started discovering my powers. Make the choice if I wanted to enter the supernatural world then. Funny how things don't work out like you plan."

"Yeah, funny," Dean mutters irritably. Sam shoots him a sympathetic look that Dean ignores.

"You're going to start practicing then?" Derek asks, gently almost.

"Yeah," Stiles says, meeting his eyes. "Yeah, I am."

"Then I gotta agree with the werewolf, kiddo," Dean says. "You're probably going to be a target."

Stiles nods. "I'm prepared for that possibility. It wouldn't be the first time I've been taken."

"I doubt you'll be _taken_ ," Dean says sternly. "The thing's probably going to just gank you where you stand."

"I'll prepare for that too then," Stiles says. "Also wouldn't be a first."

"You're a regular at this, aren't you, kid?" Dean says.

Stiles shoots at him with a finger-gun. "You betcha."

"Say goodnight to Emma and _actually_ go home this time," Derek says, interrupting. "You have school tomorrow."

"Gee, thanks, _Dad_ ," Stiles says, sarcastically. Then his whole demeanor changes as a thought strikes him. "Oh my god. Oh my _god_ , you're going to start working for my dad. He's going to start using you to check in on me and crap." Stiles gasps loudly. "You're going to be his little teacher's pet and snitch on me all the time, aren't you!"

Derek rolls his eyes. "I am _not_. Now go."

The werewolf gives him a shove toward the bassinet. Stiles goes, but he's still looking over his shoulder at Derek with exaggeratedly wide eyes.

After saying goodbye to Emma and waving to the hunters and angel, Stiles lets Derek walk him down to his car. He stops just shy of opening the driver's door and turns to Derek.

"So you really were just worried about me?"

Derek doesn't speak, but he nods once.

Stiles quirks one side of his mouth up. "Thanks, not-so-sour-wolf."

Derek doesn't deign that with a response; he only says, "Call Sam and stay on the phone with him until you're _inside_ your house."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Stiles says, pulling out his cell and punching at it a few times, while opening the car door to perch on the seat within.

Derek can hear it start to ring, then the click as Sam picks up, followed by the hunter's greeting.

"Hey, research buddy," Stiles says into the receiver, "ready for a rousing discussion about things that eat witches?"

Sam chuckles. "None of the victims were eaten, Stiles."

"I know," Stiles says, eyes on Derek as he smiles. "But I still find that topic extremely important."

"All right. Witch-eaters, it is," Sam says down the line.

Stiles winks at Derek and climbs the rest of the way into the cab. He shuts the door and waves at Derek through the window. Derek nods silently. Stiles buckles in one-handed, keys the ignition, and then drives off into the dark.

The last thing Derek hears is a scandalized gasp topped with raucous laughter from the teen.

 

 

"This should not be so _goddamn_ hard. What is wrong with these people?"

Derek glances over at the hunter sitting amidst what will supposedly turn into a crib at some point. Emma burps over his shoulder; it sounds pretty final and the werewolf goes to set her down in the bassinet. He walks over to Dean, passing the angel, who is sitting on the couch and watching Dean in deep concentration and not helping out a single bit, on the way.

"Let me see," Derek says, reaching out a hand for the instructions.

"I can do it," Dean says instead, not handing over the paper.

Derek frowns.

When the hunter and the angel had showed up this morning, sans the tall one who is at the local library scrounging up what he can, Derek had almost not let them in. Then he remembered the angel's ability to _teleport_ and figured the closed door would do little to stop them, so he let them in against every better judgement and instinct—story of Derek's life.

"I'm putting together the crib," Dean had announced.

Derek hadn't argued, because Emma had promptly started wailing; she'd needed a diaper change.

With a sigh the werewolf left them to it.

By the end of the diaper change Dean was already cursing.

"Why'd you have to get one with all these drawers?" Dean had demanded.

"I didn't. Stiles picked it."

"Damn kid," Dean had muttered.

The crib in question was a convertible crib with an attached changing station and three stack drawers beneath it. It was fairly complicated looking.

Even after a whole feeding and burping, the sandy-haired man had not managed to make any progress past unpacking all the pieces.

"Just let me see," Derek says now, lip curling.

"No. Nope. You know what?" Dean says, standing. "Fuck this."

To Derek's astonishment the hunter crumples the instructions and tosses the ball away.

"What are you—" Derek begins.

"Those instructions are bullshit. Damn furniture people just fucking with us or something," Dean announces. He's standing in the middle of the sorted parts and studying them.

There's the obvious four sides to the bed; the pieces that will make drawers; a small piece that looks to be the changing table; and about two dozen or so assorted odds, ends, and hardware pieces.

"All right, here we go," Dean says, diving into the piles.

He picks up a screwdriver and takes two pieces of the main crib frame.

"You're just going to do this without looking at the instructions," Derek says.

"Yep," Dean says, intensely focused on his task.

"I'm not putting her in that."

"It will be perfectly safe, I promise. I'm good at this sort of thing and those "instructions" are _not_ helpful."

Castiel rises from the couch and goes over to the squashed little ball and picks it up. He unfolds it and begins looking over it, perhaps impossibly, becoming even more confused than before.

Derek encroaches on Dean. "I am not letting you endanger Emma with your half-assed attempt at putting this thing together."

Dean rounds on him. "Let's get one thing straight, Dog-Breath. I would _never_ endanger her. All right?"

The two men stare each other down for a long minute while Castiel watches on, silent.

Dean finally sighs. "Look, you built those shelves, right? That's what the kid said." He gestures at the shelves in question and receives a nod. "Okay, and you didn't "follow the instructions" to do it, did you?" That's a negative. "So you know how to do this stuff. So do I. So let's just forget the fancy step-by-step and do this the old-fashioned way with good ole common sense and craftsmanship, yeah?"

Derek considers this a moment. "All right," he says finally—tersely. He takes a seat next to the hunter and adds, "But what I say goes."

"All right, okay, fine, whatever," Dean says. "Grab a screwdriver. We're starting with the siding. Is that okay with you, Bossypants?" he asks sassily.

Derek glares at him and grabs the other Philips-head. "Fine," he says stiffly.

"May I be of assistance?" Castiel asks.

"No," Dean says immediately. "You just...you sit there on the couch and watch, okay, Cas? Keep an eye on Emma."

"Okay, Dean," Castiel replies, complying.

Derek shoots the hunter a strange look and Dean mutters, "Don't ask," under his breath.

So Derek doesn't.

 

When Emma gets cranky for a bottle, Derek automatically stops what he's doing to go feed her again. Dean stops him with a hand and tells him to let Cas do it.

Derek eyes him skeptically.

"No, really, he can do it. He's been learning with me. Cas, you know how to feed a baby?"

Cas looks at Dean and carefully replies, "Yes."

"There you go. Have at it, m'man. Derek, get back here and hold this damn track in place."

Derek returns to their work on the drawers, but watches Castiel warily as the angel stands there for a moment before traveling to the kitchen. To Derek it looks like the line between knowledge and execution is a wide one for the angel.

"Fridge door," Derek calls out, when Cas enters the kitchen.

The door rattles open and then the sound of something being set on the counter occurs.

"Don't forget, you gotta warm it," Dean calls out.

"Yes, Dean."

"Top left," Derek says, when there's a pause.

The sound of a cabinet creaking open and a bowl being drawn out reaches their ears.

It's a few moments, while Derek and Dean assemble and Cas runs the tap to fill the bowl and warm the bottle.

"All that stuff the kid bought yesterday and he didn't buy one of those fancy bottle warmer things?" Dean asks idly.

"Stiles and I agreed those are a waste of money, when a bowl or the tap works just fine."

"The two foot tall rabbit though. That was a necessity."

"I will remind you that Castiel was also in support of the giant rabbit, despite it being "a falsity in the Animal Kingdom." Allen wrench."

"Fair enough," Dean says and passes over the item.

Castiel comes walking over with a bottle held in his hand like it's a canister of nuclear waste. Dean looks up and automatically holds out a wrist. Castiel puts a few drops there and Dean nods.

"Good to go, Cas. Nice work."

Derek is giving him a look, when Dean wipes his wrist on his jeans and returns his attention downward.

"Angels aren't so good at feeling hot and cold," Dean says matter-of-factly.

Derek's eyebrows pop in acknowledgement of that new tidbit. Then his eyes follow Cas as he walks over to Emma's bassinet, where the infant is still sobbing softly. He stands there over it with the bottle in his hand unmoving for a few seconds before turning around and saying panickedly, "Dean."

Derek and Dean are on alert instantly.

"Cas?" Dean asks.

"She's so fragile," Castiel says.

Dean and Derek exchange a confused look.

“…Yeah?” Dean prompts.

“Usually you help me with this part. With the…holding arrangement…”

Dean only rolls his eyes.

"Look, go put the bottle on the coffee table, then get her, then sit, then pick it back up," Dean says.

Cas nods and goes about it with a mechanical quality to all of his movements. Derek's brows draw together in not quite confusion, but just...not comprehending.

"Cas has to follow instructions to the letter on human stuff," Dean says, "or he doesn't know how to do it. The times he’s done this I was helping him and he didn't have this particular dilemma."

"Dilemma," Derek says bluntly.

"Hey, you try living as a wavelength for billions of years and then suddenly coming down here in a body and doing stuff like using a microwave, all right?" Dean says defensively.

Derek concedes the point with a tilt of his head.

Cas glances at them briefly, eyes wide like he's still afraid he's going to screw up. He's hovering over the bassinet, at the ready, but making no move to actually pick up Emma. She's squirming and crying needily, looking up at him as he stares down at her.

"Just like last time, Cas," Dean says gently, hands still working at a screw, eyes on his angel. "Slowly and support the head."

Cas nods once to himself and then reaches into the basket. He slips a hand under the infant's head and one under her bottom with no small amount of trepidation. He stops before lifting her.

"Dean," he says again, unsure.

"It's all right, Cas. You got this," Dean says encouragingly.

Derek watches closely as the angel takes in Dean's words and then changes completely from afraid to determined. He raises Emma up out of the bassinet slowly, inch by inch, like she's glass, which, yeah, basically she is.

"In the crook of your arm," Dean says.

Cas nods slightly, turning Emma carefully so she fits right into the cradle of his left arm.

"There you go," Dean says proudly. "Now go put some food in that kid. She's gonna bust a window or something."

Derek smirks in amusement as he watches Castiel walk to the couch and sit with Emma and then very precisely place the bottle where it needs to go. Emma starts sucking greedily, seemingly displeased with the wait time. But that's not what's bringing humor to Derek. It's Castiel's face. The angel is looking down at her like he can't believe he just succeeded at feeding her—without any help (technically). He looks up at Dean with a wondrous look on his face and Dean smiles softly at him. Cas doesn't exactly smile, but Derek would go so far as to say he looks happy even without it.

 

The monstrosity of a crib/changing station is finished an hour and a half later.

Castiel managed Emma for the entire time, burping her and even changing her when it was time (he had much more confidence in that realm). Dean watched on, hands still busy on his work, but smile affixed to the two of them.

Derek had wanted to snort; the damn fool was over the moon.

"I'm starving," said fool says as he stands and stretches.

"There's frozen pizza," Derek says.

Dean shrugs. "I'm down."

It's odd eating at the same table as a hunter and an angel. Derek would have thought the angel would be the more significant oddity—Castiel doesn't even need to eat—but it's the hunter that really does it for Derek.

Everything about Dean screams hunter. He's cocky; he's feisty; he's stubborn; he's _dangerous_. He wears a hunter's clothes and he carries a gun in his waistband and a knife in his boot and he regards Derek with a sort of sharpness that carries a threat behind it.

But he's also just a regular guy underneath it all. It's sort of nonplussing. Sure, Derek had seen Allison being a "normal" teenage girl and had seen Chris being a father, but the Argents were hunters born and raised—bred for it even. They couldn't stop being human predators underneath it all, if they tried.

The Winchesters, Derek thinks, were raised to be hunters, but he doesn't necessarily think they were made for it. Dean is good with his hands; Sam appears to be suited for studies. Dean handles Emma like a pro even though he tries to act like it's burdensome and not something he's completely good at. When they were assembling the furniture, Dean was practically the type of buddy you would call over to help with just that sort of project.

Derek doesn't entirely understand it, but he thinks, just maybe, that the Winchesters if given the opportunity would drop hunting for a normal life, something the Argents obviously never could do. Derek _does_ understand why they can't drop hunting though; from what he's gathered they're dealing with things far bigger than rogue werejaguars. _End of the world_ things.

Yet they took it upon themselves to deliver a baby to her rightful home and are sticking around to find what killed her entire family, even though Derek is pretty sure they could be out doing something more important and leaving the rest to the Beacon Hills pack.

Derek isn't going to say he likes Dean. But he will say that if the situation were different—he thinks he could.


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! I'm back for more!! 
> 
> It looks like I'm averaging about two months per chapter on this thing. It's a big story, so it's taking quite a bit of work to shape it. Please have patience with me and know that I love and appreciate all of you for sticking with this!
> 
> This time around there's another shopping trip, the pack gets told some stuff, and oh, would you look at that, some plot! And other things! Enjoy~

Stiles' dad catches him before school on Monday.

"Stiles…" the Sheriff says and the teen immediately knows what this is about.

He can't help it when his shoulders tighten as if he's trying to hide, to retreat; a move no doubt noticed by the Sheriff. Stiles really isn't trying to make this conversation worse than it already will be.

With great effort Stiles consciously loosens his shoulders and turns to face his dad. Their expressions match one another in somberness.

The Sheriff speaks first. "How long have you known you're a witch?"

Stiles jumps to clear away the insinuation that he was keeping secrets from his father again. "No. Dad. I—I only learned Saturday, at Deaton's. You heard me and Derek, I didn't know, I swear it. I wouldn't have kept that from you. It would have been the first thing I told you when I told you about the supernatural."

His father gives him a look.

"All right, it would have been the last thing I told you, you're right. But I still would have told you!"

The Sheriff nods. "I believe you." He truly looks as if he does. "You found out at Deaton's, you said?"

Stiles pauses, shuffles his feet and looks to the side. "Yeah. When we took Emma. Deaton just kind of dropped that bomb on me. I mean, he couldn't really _not_ because of what happened with the spark interaction and all."

His father nods slowly. "So Deaton already knew."

Stiles' mouth quirks on one side. Leave it to his dad to figure that within seconds, ever the detective.

The amusement fades quickly when Stiles next says, "Yeah. He, uh. He knew Mom."

The Sheriff goes stock still. His keen detective mind hurts him as quickly as it had helped him a moment ago and he blanches when he puts it together.

"Your mother…"

Stiles nods. "She was."

Jonathan very suddenly needs to sit down. Stiles grabs his elbow and steers him down into the armchair in the living room.

"She never told me," he mutters.

Stiles nods, mouth twisted as it tries to keep the words that don't want to be spoken in. He untwists it. "Yeah. She kept it from you."

The Sheriff looks up, wounded. " _Why?_ "

Stiles' gaze drops to the star on the Sheriff's chest. "I think you know why."

It takes only a second for him to understand. He shakes his head before dropping it into his hands. "The same god damn reason you did."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees aloud, even though he doesn't have to. A moment passes while Stiles lets that sink in, before he says, "There's more."

Jonathan's head snaps up. "About you or Claudia?"

Stiles shrugs a shoulder. "Both, I guess."

Jonathans shakes his head again, a futile attempt at denying the reality of this conversation. He rests his head in his hands for another minute and Stiles waits.

Then the Sheriff raises his head and with determination in his eyes says, "Tell me."

 

Stiles hates having to leave his father alone with this new knowledge of covens and witches and spell books (he didn't tell him that Claudia could have saved herself; he just couldn't). Technically, he won't be alone at the station, but Stiles knows his father will spend the day in his head, just like Stiles does sometimes. They're so similar at times, it makes Stiles' heart ache.

When all was said and done, the Sheriff looked Stiles square in the eye and told him, "You share with the class on this magic thing. You tell me, you tell Derek, you tell whoever else in the pack, Lydia or Scott or everyone, but I want someone else to know what you're working on. At all times. You hear me?"

Stiles understands that his father doesn't want Stiles to succumb to anything—whatever he may find. He doesn't want Stiles to lose control, to lose himself.

He'd nodded to his father, but that hadn't been enough for Jonathan.

"Promise me, Stiles," he demanded.

Visions of a massacre in a clean white hallway flashed behind Stiles' eyes. "I promise," he had said and then they'd had to part their separate ways.

 

Stiles accosts Derek's apartment Monday after school.

"Stiles," Derek says for the _seventh_ time.

"Sh!" Stiles responds for the _seventh goddamn_ time.

Derek huffs like a prissy prima donna and glares silently at the teen as he works his way around the loft with a sharpie.

Dean watches on, amused by Derek's plight. Sam is looking on curiously. Castiel is frowning at Stiles per usual.

Stiles finally deems _whatever the hell he was doing_ finished and caps the marker with an accomplished look on his face.

"There. All set."

"All set for _what?_ " Derek snaps, arms crossed over his chest petulantly.

"For," and here Stiles holds up a hand and begins ticking off his fingers, "demons, witches, ghosts, gods, and—zombies. Just to be safe. Did you know zombies are real, Derek?" Stiles looks like he can't decide whether he's excited or horrified by that.

Derek rolls his eyes.

"These are very thorough, Stiles," Sam says, inspecting one of the marks. Dean and Castiel are doing the same a few steps over.

"Not bad, kid," Dean comments.

"Thanks," Stiles says happily. "I got them from my mom's Book of Shadows."

Castiel nods. "These are wisely chosen marks. They will do well to protect this apartment and all within it from harm."

"My house, too," Stiles says, beaming with pride. "I warded it all last night. Dad practically had my head for scribbling all over the walls like a five year-old, when he saw what I was doing. They come off with rubbing alcohol though. No big." He aims this at Derek.

Derek grunts.

"Speaking of Book of Shadows," Stiles continues, "did you guys happen to find Tara's in her car?"

Sam and Dean glance at each other, Dean shakes his head with a shrug.

"No," Sam answers for them. "We didn't find anything like that, but we may have missed it if it was packed in a bag somewhere."

"Or warded," Dean says. "I'm sure there's a "for your eyes only" spell."

"Huh," Stiles says, scratching at his chin. "I'll have to ask Dad to pull the evidence list from the crash. I mean, there has to be one, right? A whole coven, someone would have a grimoire."

Castiel nods. "I believe it is customary for a coven or family to keep one grimoire for everyone's use."

"I would think Tara would have taken something like that with her when she ran," Dean says. "Everyone else being dead and all."

"Indeed," Cas says.

Stiles nods. "We'll have to track it down then. Might have something on our baddie. Now how's the most precious girl in the world?" He exudes joy, trotting over to Emma's newly—finely, thanks very much—assembled crib/changing station with three tier drawer storage and adorable woodland-print bedding.

Stiles sweeps her up into his arms and bounces her, taking a moment to admire the new furniture. "Nice work on the crib."

"Yeah, thanks," Dean says shittily. "The damn instructions would have had us putting it together and it'd make a car, I swear. We handled it though."

Stiles blinks. " _We?_ " he repeats. "We, who?"

"Me and Daddy Dearest over there," Dean says, nodding at Derek.

Derek glares at the nickname, but doesn't comment. It's better than Dog-Breath, although he doesn't know what the hunter has against using people's names.

Stiles gapes. "You and Derek put this together— _together?_ "

"Yeah. What of it?" Dean asks, squinting into a frown.

Stiles cackles. "That's great. Dean and Derek working together. Was there bloodshed?"

The two men shoot each other disdainful looks.

Castiel's frown deepens. "No one was injured."

That only makes Stiles laugh some more.

Emma seems quite enthralled by the teen's chortling and reaches up to bat at Stiles' mouth. Stiles perks up and focuses on her.

"Did you like that, Emma? Did you like that sound?" Stiles babbles. He shakes his head and blows raspberries at her. She finds that amusing, too.

Stiles paces with her, bouncing her slightly and rocking from side to side gently.

"So when are you gonna tell everybody?" he asks suddenly, eyes on Derek.

Derek regards him calmly. "After I get all the paperwork signed and it's...official."

"So when's that?" Stiles asks.

"Tomorrow."

"Want me to rally the troops after school? We'll all stop by?"

It's a moment before Derek replies, but he nods when he does.

 

The meeting was pre-arranged, so when Derek raps on the door and then enters the Sheriff's office, Emma's carrier balanced in one hand, Jonathan looks up and smiles.

"Derek. Come in, come in."

Derek does, taking a seat across from the Sheriff before pulling Emma into his lap and letting the Sheriff get his fill of her.

"There she is!" John says. "How are you today, beautiful? Wonderful as usual?"

Derek smiles softly, watching Emma stare up the Sheriff with big, bright, curious eyes. Her hand is in her mouth and she's drooling impressively, but Jonathan is looking at her like she really is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Sheriff Stilinski settles back down in his chair and starts shuffling papers around. "I've got the paperwork right here all ready to go. Now, I had the lawyer pull the form for legally changing her last name to Hale. You are doing that, right?"

Derek inhales deeply through his nose, waits a beat, then nods.

The Sheriff gives him an encouraging smile. "All right. Just need your signature and we'll send 'em through the system."

"Thank you, Sheriff," Derek says, taking a pen and studying the packet the Sheriff passes to him.

"No need to thank me. It's my job," Jonathan says.

Derek doesn't comment on that; he thinks the Sheriff knows what he meant by it.

Once all the papers are signed, the Sheriff slides the sheaf into a manila folder labeled "Hale-Jessop" and then sets it down.

And that's it. Emma is legally his daughter. Derek isn't sure what he's feeling. It's sort of like free-falling. He doesn't know if he should be scared or not.

Jonathan looks up, sees the odd look on Derek's face and smiles. It's a look he's seen before staring back at him from a mirror. "Officially a dad now."

Derek nods. He looks down at Emma and just barely, barely smiles.

The Sheriff says, "Well, if that's all settled, then—"

"Actually."

Jonathan pauses.

"There's something else," Derek says.

The werewolf's expression grows constipated and Jonathan grows concerned.

"Derek? What is it, son?"

The kind words do little to ease the expression from Derek's face; he looks highly uncomfortable as he answers the man.

"Sheriff...I...there was something I wanted to ask you…"

"Of course. What is it?"

Derek takes a deep breath, focusing on Emma again, and some of the discomfort finally seems to melt off of him.

"In...packs. There's...there are people called _comm_ _è_ _res_ or _comp_ _è_ _res_ and they're...It's, it's not religious or anything, but they're sort of like...godparents."

The Sheriff's serious expression turns into one of surprise. "All right," he says.

Derek takes another deep breath before plowing on. "And I was wondering—I wanted to ask you. Please. I would be honored if you would be Emma's _comp_ _è_ _re_."

The Sheriff is struck speechless.

"I know when we met for the first time," Derek says, avoiding eye contact, speaking haltingly, "that it was because you were arresting me, but—And I know I've made some really bad decisions. But you've kind of been...since you found out and all. And I think it's important that she have someone like you to look up to. Since I'm not exactly…"

A hand on Derek's shoulder stops him from finishing that sentence. He looks up to see the Sheriff looking at him with earnest eyes; that quality is one of the things Derek admires most in the man—his honesty and sincerity.

"Derek," Jonathan says gently. "The first time I met you, you were sixteen years old and your whole world had just ended."

Oh.

That's right. Derek hadn't even thought about that. Of course, he hadn't thought about that day since it happened, refusing to relive even a second of it, should it surface. But that's right, the Sheriff was there. He wasn't the Sheriff yet, but Derek remembers the man, Deputy Stilinski, and the way he had led them, he and Laura, into the current Sheriff's office and sat them down on a ratty couch and put a blanket over them and held Laura's hand while she cried. Derek hadn't cried; he'd been too shocked to do much of anything besides _sit there,_ because he'd _known_. But he remembers the hand on his shoulder, just the same as the one now. And he remembers those earnest eyes.

Derek nods, eyes on his knees. "You're right."

Jonathan Stilinski smiles softly and then sits back down in his chair.

"I never thought it was you, you know."

Derek looks up at him again. "What?"

"When Stiles and Scott accused you of murder—multiple times. I never thought it was you. I've been doing this job a lo-o-ong time and before that I was in the military. I've seen killers. I've seen psychopaths. I've seen the worst of the worst, Derek, and you've never fit the bill, not once I've ever looked at you.

"We lost Claudia when Stiles was eight, so I know what a broken kid looks like too."

 _That_ surprises Derek and his mouth parts on air that won't form into words because Derek will probably _never_ know what to say in these situations.

"You got a good heart, son," Stilinski says. "I can see that and I think Stiles can, too, when he's not too busy running around with his head up his own ass."

Derek huffs a laugh. "Stiles is a good kid. A good person. In spite of himself sometimes."

The Sheriff chuckles. "You nailed it on the head. I think the same can be said of you. I'd be honored to be Emma's werewolf godfather."

Jonathan grins and combined with his word choice, he reminds Derek so much of Stiles in that moment. He knows he's lucky to have them—both of them—despite the circumstances that brought them together.

"What'd you call it?" the Sheriff asks.

" _Comp_ _è_ _re_ ," Derek replies. "It's French. But godfather is good too."

Jonathan smiles crookedly, again very much like his son, and then says, "I made a lunch appointment with Jordan. I'd like the two of you to join us if you don't mind."

Derek smirks. "You're really set on that Supernatural Squad of yours, aren't you?"

"Oh, don't you start calling it that too," the Sheriff groans.

There's a light knock on the door and then Parrish pops his head in.

"Sheriff—Oh. Derek. Hello."

"Hello, Jordan."

Parrish's eyes fall to Emma. "Who's this?" he asks, beaming like the sun—of course. There's no way the guy's not good with kids.

"This is Emma," Jonathan says. "Come in and say hello."

Parrish continues to grin like a little boy as he approaches and then plops down into the chair next to Derek's. "Hi there," he says to Emma, leaning in close. He grabs one tiny hand and shakes it lightly with two fingers.

"Parrish, Derek and Emma here will be joining us for lunch," Sheriff Stilinski says.

The deputy looks up at him, curious.

The Sheriff gives him a weighted look. "We've got a lot to fill you in on."

 

Sam is frowning at the news when Dean walks out of the bathroom after his shower. Castiel is in a similar state.

"What's that face for?"

"There was a woman who bludgeoned her husband to death with a candlestick in Milton, Illinois."

Dean smirks, "Was it Mrs. Peacock in the library?"

"Dean," Sam chides.

Castiel turns to look at Dean.

Before he can open his mouth Dean says, "Don't ask—"

"Clue," Castiel says surprising them both.

"Castiel, you know Clue?" Sam inquires.

"Yes. I played a lot of board games when I was at the mental institution. They replaced the weapons with colored cotton balls, so there were no candlesticks, but I read the instructions"

Both brothers grimace behind his back when he turns back to the TV.

"Why's this chick in Milton matter?" Dean asks. "Sounds like she caught him cheating to me."

"She apparently killed herself as well, afterward."

Dean considers it. "You think it's our kind of thing?"

"I'm not sure."

Dean knows the look in his brother's eye very well. "You want to go investigate. What, you don't have enough on your plate here? You want to drive all the way out to Illinois to see about some unhappy housewife? We don't even have any leads here, Sam!"

Sam is shocked at Dean's tone. "Dean. I wasn't saying I was going to leave this case. But maybe someone should look into it. We could call Garth. The world didn't stop having cases just because we found a place to hide, Dean. And don't forget that there are still a bunch of fallen angels roaming the earth. Who knows what they're up to?"

"I know that!" Dean snaps. "But I'm not leaving here until we find what's trying to kill Emma. All right?"

"All right," Sam says. "Jeez, calm down."

"Call Garth or whatever, I'm going for a walk."

Surprisingly, when Dean reaches the door he says, "Cas, you coming or what?"

The angel blinks, startled. "Um."

"You were just going to follow me anyway, weren't you?"

Cas has the decency to look abashed. "Yes."

"Well, this way I can at least see you. Now come on if you're coming"

Dean walks out the door and Castiel hurries after him.

Sam sighs heavily.

 

Garth, as always, is happy to get a call from the Winchesters.

"Sam! Howdy! How're things?"

"Hi, Garth. Things are...the way they are," he says. "Listen, we've got something we want you to look into for us."

"Well, sure, what you got?"

"A case in Milton, Illinois. Housewife killed her husband with a candlestick before committing suicide."

Sam hears Garth whistle low. "That's quite a story. I'll admit I'm not sure what you think it is though. Sounds kind of, I don't know, human to me."

"Dean said the same thing. But I'm not so sure. We're tied up where we are so we can't make it out there. But if you could check it out and make sure that it really is just mankind at its finest, I would appreciate it."

"Well, sure, Sam, I'll get right on it. Call you in a day or two."

"Thanks, Garth. Talk to you soon."

 

Dean only goes so far as the edge of the parking lot before he stops and looks out at the strip of road that runs by their cheap motel. Hands on his hips, he sighs.

"You were rather harsh on Sam," Cas says.

"Yeah, I know," Dean says. "I might've overreacted a little. But, c'mon, Cas. It's been six days since we found Emma and we have jack squat about our killer."

"It's not for a lack of trying," Castiel says.

"Yeah, but what good's it doing? I just feel like we're waiting. Waiting for something to jump out and try to kill us."

"That isn't an unusual feeling for you, Dean."

"No. But still. Not usually a baby involved." Dean is quiet a moment, eyes far away. "Why can't we find anything?"

It's rhetorical, but Cas replies anyway. "Perhaps...there is nothing to find."

Dean's attention comes around. "What?"

"When we entered Beacon Hills, remember I said that there was so much supernatural activity that it would be difficult to notice us here?"

"Yeah," Dean says.

"Well, perhaps this killer is having that very sort of trouble. Maybe they simply haven't found Emma again yet."

Dean stares, green eyes intense. "Damn. You might be right, Cas."

Cas tilts his head, a concession. "It seems this killer is susceptible to the rules like everyone else."

"Well, that's mildly reassuring." Dean snorts. "Jesus...that can only last for so long though."

"I know."

"On all accounts."

"...I know."

The angel's eyes travel out to the same distance the hunter's sketch. "For now," he says, "we have some time."

 

"Stiles, why can't you just tell us what Derek wanted to talk about?" Scott asks as they make their way up to the loft.

The whole gang is there: Scott, Lydia, Kira, Malia, Liam, and Mason (who adamantly refuses to be left out now that he knows).

"Because it's not my thing to tell," Stiles says.

"Stiles, this better not be something stupid," Lydia says.

"Believe me: it's not," Stiles assures her.

Scott pulls back the door and lets the ladies go in first like the proper little gentleman he is, only to have the trio stop short once they're inside. Stiles slides right past them and sees that they've stopped because Derek is standing there with Emma in his arms. Derek appears to be frozen in his tracks, which is ridiculous because he had to have heard them coming. It leads Stiles to wonder exactly how long Derek has been standing like that.

Judging by the wild look in his eyes, Stiles' guess is: a while.

Everyone is gaping at Derek, not having expected the news of a baby in the slightest, and after a beat Derek's face smooths over into his default expressionless mask.

"Guys?" Stiles says, halfway between the two groups. "Maybe wanna actually come inside?"

Lydia shakes herself out of it first and with a pleasant smile says, "Yes. Of course. Let's all have a seat."

The rest of the party seems to follow her lead and heads over to the couch to perch on or around it cautiously.

Stiles has to physically push Derek to get him moving and then guide him to get him over to the others.

"All right," he says, noticing the way Kira's eyes are going back and forth between Emma and all the baby stuff set up around Derek's bed. She looks like she's about to just blurt it out, so Stiles spares both her and Derek and says, "Yes. Derek has a baby now. No. She is not his biologically. Yes. He is adopting her through the legal system. No. She is not a werewolf."

There's stunned silence for a moment and then, Scott, bless him, asks with a big, goofy smile on his face, "What's her name?"

Stiles grins and looks to Derek, who looks slightly less wooden, and nudges him with a hip.

"Emma," Derek answers.

"Emma," Kira coos. "What a cute name!"

"I didn't give it to her," Derek says.

"Where did she come from?" Liam asks.

"So she's my...cousin, then...right?" Malia says.

"How old is she?" Mason asks.

"Whoa, one question at a time," Stiles says. "Uh…" he glances at Derek. "Maybe we should start with Malia's first...huh, Derek?"

Derek nods gravely. "Malia. She's actually related to us by blood."

"What?" Malia asks, face drawn.

"Our great uncle, our grandfather's brother, left the pack and married into a coven."

"Whoa!" Mason says, eyes wide. "Coven?"

Derek and Stiles exchange a look and then Stiles is clapping his hands and saying, "Let's start at the beginning, shall we?"

 

When the story wraps up, everyone is quiet for a moment, just processing. Kira looks at Emma and, when Emma looks back, wiggles her fingers at her.

"Kira," Lydia says suddenly. "Would you like to go shopping with me for some things for Emma?"

"Lydia, n—" Stiles tries, but the girls steamroll right over him.

"I would love to! Oh my gosh!"

"Good. The store is open until nine," Lydia says, looking at her phone. "Let's go. Malia, you too."

Malia startles. "Me too?"

"You, too. Come on," the redhead says, heading for the door with Kira and, belatedly, Malia on her heels.

"I tried, man," Stiles laments to Derek, who just shrugs. There are worse things that letting his daughter's wardrobe fall into the fashionable hands of Lydia Martin.

Castiel is suddenly standing just in front of the trio of girls.

Everyone jumps, startled by his sudden appearance.

"What the—" Mason begins, jumping up from the couch, but stops when Lydia holds up a hand in his direction.

Her mouth is turned down in the most affronted moue Stiles has ever seen and her head is tilted to the side like she's working on a particularly challenging quantum physics problem, but her eyes are glued to Castiel rather than a chalkboard. Then she points a finger at Cas, moving it from head to toe, and says, "What's this? What's happening here? What exactly crossed your mind to think that a trenchcoat and a sloppy suit would be appropriate attire anywhere ever?"

"Lydia, Lydia," Stiles soothes, going to place an arm around her shoulders and squeeze her. "Take it easy on Cas, okay? He doesn't know any better."

"And?" Lydia says, throwing Stiles an unimpressed look. "Neither did you, but look how far you've come under my guidance." She gestures at Stiles' clothes and Cas frowns at them, as lost on the topic as ever. "I mean, plaid overshirts, graphic tees, and unflattering jeans? Stiles, when I took you shopping that first time, I actually thought you might be hopeless. But I stuck with it and look at you now! Your ass looks fabulous in those pants."

"My ass looks good no matter what, thank you very much," Stiles says. "And you mean when you _abducted_ me to go shopping?"

"Tom _ay_ to, tom _ah_ to," Lydia hums, eyeing Castiel now like he's a challenge. To her he undoubtedly is. "I'm going to take you shopping and we're going to fix this. No matter how long it takes," she declares.

"Shopping," Castiel says, not understanding. "Shopping for what?"

Lydia blinks, not expecting that. "For clothes," she says, like she's speaking to someone who forgot what English was.

"I do not need any clothes," Cas says.

"Of course, you do," Lydia says. "You don't wear the same outfit every day, do you?"

She's asking rhetorically, but Stiles winces as Castiel answers in complete seriousness. "Yes. I do."

Lydia looks like he just committed blasphemy before God Himself and she's the Pope. Stiles personally finds that particular analogy _hilarious_.

"How…" Lydia begins, slowly, "in the world...is such a tragedy allowed to exist?"

"Lydia," Stiles says and waits until she pries her incensed eyes off of Castiel to tell her, "Cas wears the _exact same_ _set_ of clothes every single day."

Lydia frowns. "What?"

"That's not possible," Malia says. "Clothes get worn out. And dirty. And smelly."

"Not for Cas, they don't," Stiles says. He looks to the man in question. "Wanna give 'em the spiel?"

"Spiel?"

"Introduce yourself," Stiles clarifies, amused smirk on his lips.

"Oh." He looks toward the other teenagers. "I am Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord."

Everyone's jaws drop.

"Annnnd, there it is," Stiles says.

The room verily erupts into a cacophony of exclamations and questions. That's the state of it when Sam and Dean walk into the room; appropriately, they are taken aback by all the noise.

"Whoa, hey, whoa! What's all the racket about?" Dean asks above the din. "Why's everybody ganging up on Cas?"

The hunter walks over and puts himself squarely in front of the angel, glaring at the teens. Stiles personally also finds _that_ hilarious. So does Sam if his smirk is anything to go by.

"They just found out he's an angel. Cut 'em some slack," Stiles says, then gesturing broadly, "Dean, Sam, Cas—meet the pack.

"That's Lydia: banshee.

"Kira: kitsune.

"Malia: werecoyote.

"Scott: werewolf and fearless leader.

"Liam: also werewolf.

"And last but not least our token human, Mason," Stiles finishes with a flourish.

"Hey!" Mason protests. "I'm not the token human, you're human too!"

"Oh, no, not anymore," Stiles says. "Well sort of. Still human technically, I think, but I'm a witch now too, so," Stiles hisses through his teeth and shrugs, "looks like it's all you, man."

Mason gapes, then throws up his hands. "Great. _Great_. Token black person, token gay person, and now token _human_. If this were a horror movie, I'd so be dead already."

"You're standing in a room full of monsters," Derek says, deadpan. "This _is_ a horror movie."

"Good monsters," Lydia says, patting Malia and Kira on their arms. "And who are you gentlemen exactly?" she asks of the Winchesters, sizing them up with a wicked gleam in her eye.

"Sam. Dean," Stiles says, pointing to each. "The Winchester bros. Also hunters."

Scott splutters. "W-what? _Hunters?_ "

"And the ones who brought Emma here!" Stiles add hastily.

"You didn't mention that when you told us that story, Stiles," Liam says, looking pale.

Mason obligingly pats his friend on the back, while still looking a little wild-eyed himself.

"Stiles, why didn't you tell me there were hunters in town?" Scott asks. "I feel like that's something I need to know."

"Scott, it's okay, dude. My dad has known since they showed up. And not to put down your Alpha status, buddy, but the long arm of the law scares a hunter a lot more than a set of claws does."

"Amen," Dean says.

"They're totally cool, too," Stiles says, then to the brothers, "Right, guys?"

"Right," Sam says. "Really. We're just sticking around to figure out what killed the Jessop coven."

"And then kill it," Dean adds.

"Right. The _new_ unknown mass murderer," Lydia says with a sigh.

"Have you found anything on them?" Scott asks.

Sam shakes his head, frowning deeply. "I've been researching and nothing has jumped out at me. I'm still looking."

Dean shakes his head, too. "We haven't seen or found anything in the town either. No signs of anyone or anything moving in."

"Dad is keeping an eye out, too," Stiles says.

"And Parrish," Derek adds. "We filled him in today."

Stiles gets that look that means trouble—the delighted one. "Did you tell him about the other thing, too?"

"What other thing?" Malia asks.

"The baby?" Mason says.

"No, no, no, not the baby," Stiles says, grinning like a fool. "The _other_ other thing."

Derek rolls his eyes in a really and truly admirable manner (Stiles doesn't need to know Derek himself teased the Sheriff with it earlier). "Yes, Stiles. I start at the end of the month."

Stiles crows in excitement. "Supernatural Squad is a-go!"

Lydia smirks. "You'll look very nice in a deputy's uniform, Derek."

"Thank you, Lydia," Derek says flatly.

Mason's jaw drops and he looks at Derek with an obvious air of burgeoning desire. "Damn," he mutters.

"Wait, you're going to be a cop?" Liam asks.

"Derek, that's wonderful," Kira says, sweetheart that she is.

"Why does nobody tell me anything anymore?" Scott says.

"Scott, relax, it's been like three days. You're completely filled in now," Stiles says.

"All right," Scott says, easily enough.

"I think everyone is officially all caught up now," Stiles declares, satisfied. "Now. Who wants to order Chinese?"

"I suppose shopping can wait another hour," Lydia says.

Stiles grins. "Excellent. Who wants egg rolls?"

 

Lydia makes good on her promise to take Castiel shopping the very next day. She returns to the loft on Wednesday afternoon to collect the angel and drop off _nineteen_ new outfits for Emma when she does and instructs Derek for nearly thirty minutes on which accessory goes with each.

Derek kind of sees why Stiles had tried to put a stop to this.

He thanks her regardless.

Lydia turns to Castiel, who is awkwardly looming over Dean's shoulder as the hunter looks up things on the laptop, Sam across from him with open books that Stiles brought (after catching a glimpse of Deaton's collection, he absolutely had to borrow what Deaton was willing to lend—one day he'll get his hands on all of them) spread around him and a pencil in his mouth. The petite redhead puts her hands on her hips and says, "Well? Come on."

Castiel looks at her, deeply confused.

"Come on, what?" Dean asks.

"Come on, we're going shopping, _Castiel_ ," Lydia replies pointedly. "I told you."

"Oh," Cas says, straightening up.

"You were serious?" Dean asks.

"Dead serious," Lydia says tightly.

"Lydia does not joke about a man's wardrobe," Stiles elaborates as he shakes a rattle in front of Emma.

"Well, too bad, Troop Beverly Hills," Dean says. "Cas doesn't have any money."

"Money is _not_ a problem," Lydia says haughtily. And it really isn't. After Peter got put into the supernatural psych ward, Derek became the legal operator of his accounts. Considering all that Peter had done to Lydia and all that Lydia had done for him, Derek felt it was only right that Lydia receive a small sum of money as a sort of reparations. If two million dollars can be considered small. Derek doesn't know how she's hiding that from her mother—and he doesn't want to.

"Is it just you?" Dean asks. "I'm not gonna send Cas off with you and just leave him to fend for himself."

"You act like _I'm_ the wolf here," Lydia says.

Derek snorts, which earns him a withering glare from Miss Martin.

She turns her attention back to Dean, who is apparently the man to go to if you need permission to take Castiel anywhere. "I'm not taking no for an answer."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine. I'm coming with you though. I don't trust you not to dress him up like a fruitcake."

"Why would a cake wear clothes?" Castiel asks and Dean rolls his eyes again.

Lydia only stares at him with a look that says she can't believe he's for real, while Stiles guffaws.

"Oh man, I'm not missing this for the world. I'm coming too," he says. Bending to place a kiss on Emma's forehead he says, "Bye, munchkin. Derek. Sam."

Derek tilts his chin at him and Sam waves.

"Try not to have too much fun _shopping_ , Dean," Sam calls after his brother. When he turns back to scowl at him, Sam is not trying to hide his shit-eating grin in the slightest.

 

"Man, I hate malls," Dean says as he stares up at the edifice of the local shopping dive.

"Why?" Stiles asks.

"Too many people," Dean says.

"Aw, not a people person, Dean?" Stiles mocks.

Dean shoves him.

Stiles only cackles.

"Enough," Lydia says, taking the lead as they begin to head toward the entrance. "This is a serious trip. We are on a mission here."

"It's just clothes," Dean complains. "Cas doesn't even need any, he just...manifests them or whatever."

"It's a matter of will and bending the fabric of reality," Castiel comments.

Lydia arches a brow at that as they pass through the front doors, then sashays into the first department store they come across. Dean has to snag Cas' sleeve when the angel stops intrepidly at the overwhelming sight of the dozens of brightly lit stores and the milling mass circling them.

"Don't buy a lot," Dean tells Lydia. "He's just going to leave them here, when we leave."

"I insist he takes them with you," Lydia counters.

"He's an _angel_ ," Dean argues. "He doesn't have _luggage_ , okay?"

"I guess you don't either or you wouldn't still be wearing "lodge chic" today," Lydia says dryly.

"My clothes are fine. They cover my body and they let me do my job," Dean says, stubborn.

"Yes, well," Lydia says, hand drifting over a light blue cardigan.

"Hey. No. Uh-uh," Dean says, pointing at the thing. "None of that frilly metro crap, all right?"

"There's nothing frilly about a _sweater_ , Dean," Lydia says.

"There is when it's got buttons on it and when it's the color of the damn sky," Dean says.

Lydia scoffs. "Like I would put Castiel in something _sky_ blue. That's cerulean, dumbass."

"It's light blue," Dean says heatedly.

"Whoa!" Stiles says, throwing his lanky arms between them before anyone can say anything else. "Let's take a timeout here! It is too soon for a full blown argument, we _just_ got here."

"No light blue sweaters," Dean insists.

"It's not up to _you_ , Dean," Lydia says.

"Right?" Stiles interjects. "Hey, here's an idea: why don't we ask Castiel what he likes?"

Three pairs of eyes pin the angel in place.

Stiles prompts him, "Well, Cas? What do you think about the sweater? Yay or nay?"

Castiel looks down at the item in question and then looks back up and simply says, "I have no opinion about such things."

Stiles rubs his forehead. "Great help there, thank you, Cas."

"You are welcome," Cas replies.

Stiles moans.

"See, it is up to me," Dean says. "That's why I came."

Lydia rolls her eyes mightily. "Fine," she concedes. "I'll stick with uptown plaid then, shall I?"

"Lady, I don't even know what that means."

"Well, you're about to find out. This way," Lydia singsongs.

Lydia glides through the aisles of clothes like a swan on water. She tells Castiel to stand up straight and she holds things in front of him, checks the color, measures the breadth of his shoulders. Every time she selects a piece for fitting, she tosses it to Dean, _much_ to the man's chagrin. Stiles laughs at him, but whispers to him not to argue or she'll make him do something even worse.

"Like what?" Dean asks.

"Like hold her purse," Stiles mutters.

Dean wisely shuts his trap.

The mound of clothes that the Winchester is carrying by the time Lydia deems them finished weighs close to what Sam weighs, he's pretty sure. He's relieved when he can finally set it all down in the dressing room. And by "set down" he means drop on the floor.

Lydia gives him a scathing eye, but ignores berating him in favor of instructing Castiel which pieces to put on first.

Dean starts protesting when Castiel starts stripping right then and there.

"Wait until we're gone, Jesus, decency, Cas!"

Castiel frowns and says, "Why?"

"Just—because!" Dean says. "Why can't you just will them on anyway?"

"Lydia said I should put them on," comes the reason.

Dean sighs. "Cas, you gotta quit taking things so literally."

"No, Cas. Please don't stop taking things so literally," Lydia says, hiding a smile behind a dainty hand as her eyes rake over the exposed torso; Stiles snickers openly.

Castiel blinks at them in confusion and Dean mutters, "Jesus," under his breath.

"Do whatever you want, Cas, just wait until we're gone to do it!" the hunter says and begins shuffling Stiles and Lydia away. "And we're gone!"

He shuts the door behind him and joins Stiles and Lydia on the chairs outside the fitting area. Castiel stares after him, thinking something about the man seemed strange just then.

Dean plops down with a beleaguered sigh.

"If that wasn't the most awkward thing I've ever seen, I don't know what is," he comments to the ceiling. His head is tipped back onto the chair's plush back and his body is slouched in the seat like he's forgotten everything about proper etiquette for public places. "I did not need to see Cas undressing."

"Really?" Lydia queries. "Haven't you seen Castiel undress before?"

Dean splutters, bolting up in his chair. "What—What the hell are you talking about, lady?"

Stiles chortles into his sleeve, while Lydia gives him the big ole innocent eyes. "Aren't the two of you an item?" she asks.

" _No!_ What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing is wrong with me," Lydia asserts. "I was merely making an observation."

"Well, it's the _wrong_ observation. He's an _angel_ for chrissakes!

"He's hot," Lydia counters.

"That's—that's not—Cas doesn't actually look—it's his _vessel's_ appearance—" Dean struggles.

"So you have noticed," Lydia interrupts smoothly.

"No!" Dean nearly shouts. "There is no noticing! Geez, what the hell do you think goes on between us?"

"Uh...eye-fucking," Stiles says. "Like a lot of it."

Dean groans. "That is not—"

"Dean, dude," Stiles interrupts, "you have to admit: there's a lot of staring."

"That's just because Cas doesn't understand normal human stuff like an appropriate amount of eye contact!"

"So you stare back, because…?" Stiles says.

"Bec—Because it's rude not to look at someone when you're talking to them!"

"Right. So," Lydia says, taking the reins again. "Why are you so protective of him then?"

"I'm no more protective of Cas than I am of Sam," Dean says gruffly. "And I'll have you know, we happen to die a lot. Okay?"

"Okay," Lydia says slowly.

There's a beat of silence and then Stiles says, "Cas says you guys share a profound bond."

Lydia's head snaps around to him. "A profound bond?" Then it snaps back to Dean. "What does _that_ mean?"

"I don't know, it's some angel mumbo jumbo crap. We're connected or something," Dean grumbles.

"Hear that, Lydia? They're _connected_." Stiles grins wide and waggles his eyebrows.

Lydia smirks at Dean.

"Will both of you just drop it?" Dean asks angrily. "You're _wrong_ , okay? There's nothing going on between me and Cas. For chrissakes you act like you've caught us _in bed_ together or some—"

" _Ahem_."

The sound of a throat clearing brings their collective attention back front and center to land on—on Castiel. Whose appearance just took a hard right.

"Wow," Lydia says. "I'm a genius."

Stiles holds up a hand and she high-fives it without turning her head.

Dean for his part is _speechless_. Cas is—Cas is—is—

Yeah. _Wow_.

Castiel is wearing a burnt orange plaid-patterned cotton button-up over a soft white undershirt. Over that he's wearing a plain black hoodie, topped off by possibly the most attractive leather jacket on the planet. The blue jeans are slim and hug his hips nicely. The look is polished off with a nice pair of casual black lace-up boots. Which are untied.

"Is...is this all right?" Castiel asks uncertainly.

"'All right'?" Lydia parrots. " _All right?_ Castiel you look like you walked out of GQ."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means you're hot, dude," Stiles says. "Isn't he hot, Dean?"

Dean continues to gape, not even catching Stiles' jibe. He didn't know that's what the angel could look like out of his oversized trench coat or asylum scrubs. It's only when Castiel looks directly at him and shifts his weight uncomfortably that Dean finally snaps out of it.

"What? Yeah. Yes. Very nice," Dean says looking away and leaning back in his chair. He rearranges his legs a little, because his pants suddenly seem a little snug.

Lydia and Stiles exchange sly grins.

"You look great, Castiel," Lydia then says to the angel. "But you should tie your shoes. It's a cleaner look."

"I...I don't know how," Cas admits.

"Oh," Lydia says, surprised.

"Is this an angel thing?" Stiles asks, squinting as he tries to figure it out.

"Yeah, it's an angel thing," Dean mutters. "Cas, just will your shoes tied."

"Okay," Castiel says simply and in the next second the shoes are in fact neatly tied.

"Wow," Lydia says. "Handy."

"Isn't it?" Stiles says. "He teleports, too."

"Oh," Lydia says, research-gleam alighting her eye.

"It's not actually teleportation," Castiel informs them. "I am merely flying very, very fast."

"Flying?" Lydia says. "You _do_ have wings then."

"Focus," Dean says irritably.

"Yes, of course," Lydia says, back on track, and then tells Cas his next outfit. When Cas has gone, she says, “Now what’s this about a vessel?”

 

Dean doesn't know how, but _somehow_ he walks out of there with two new shirts and a new jacket in a deep green. She even picked out a few things for Sam too, which flusters the goliath when she bestows them to him.

Cas has come away with four whole shopping bags of purchases that Lydia tells him he must start wearing for as long as he's in Beacon Hills. Cas uncomfortably agrees.

Everyone is in high spirits as they return to Derek's loft.

But as they cross over the threshold, Lydia stops dead.

"Lydia?" Stiles asks. When he looks at her, he says, "Oh, no. No, not this."

"What—" Dean begins to demand.

But then Lydia's mouth opens and the small girl emits a scream the likes of which could wake the dead.

 

"What the _hell_ was that?" Dean asks, rubbing his left ear, which had been a little too close to Lydia when she screamed.

"A banshee's cry," Stiles says, sitting on the couch with Lydia and holding her hand.

Derek walks up and offers her a mug of warm tea, which she accepts with a deep gratefulness.

Parrish, who had come over to drop more paperwork off for Derek, holds Emma to him and rocks her gently. Lydia's wail had, of course, upset the tiny girl, although, miraculously as soon as Parrish picked her up she stopped crying, like someone had flipped a switch. Weird, but useful. Now, he comes over to pass Emma to Derek and take a seat on Lydia's other side, putting a reassuring arm around her shoulders.

"Why's everybody freaking out so bad?" Dean asks.

"Dean," Sam says, "a banshee's cry is a precursor to death."

Dean looks back at Lydia, then back at Sam. "So you're telling me someone is going to die."

"Yes," Lydia whispers.

"Well, who? How?" Dean asks. "Let's get out there."

"It doesn't work like that," Lydia says. Her face crumples. "At least it doesn't for me. I-I don't know how to control it. I hear things sometimes, but most of the time it's too late. I just find the bodies," she whispers dejectedly.

"Hey, we'll figure it out," Sam says.

"Damn right, we will," Dean says. "Sammy, let's go."

"Where?" Stiles asks.

"Anywhere," Dean replies. "We're going to run the town."

Cas starts following the Winchesters out the door and Dean turns to him and says, "Nuh-uh. You're staying here. You protect the kids, you protect Emma. You hear me?"

"Yes," Castiel accepts with a nod, although it seems like he'd rather go with Dean.

"I'll go with you," Parrish says, standing.

He's still in his Sheriff's Department uniform and Dean thinks that's actually not a half-bad idea to have a deputy with them if they should get caught sneaking around somewhere.

"Sure, let's go," he says.

 

They don't find her in time.

What they find is the corpse of a young woman with her heart brutally ripped out of her chest.

Parrish stays behind, calls it in, while Dean and Sam search the area for any signs of their killer. When they find none, they return to the loft with the news.

Lydia looks absolutely bereft; Stiles hugs her and rocks them back and forth.

It's late and everyone decides it's best to call it a night. Derek offers his bed to Lydia, saying she can stay the night if she doesn't feel like going home. She thanks him and goes to lie down in the cool blue sheets.

Stiles will be staying too, he announces, and Derek just lets him do what he wants. What he _needs_ to, tonight.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean says and the trio leaves for their motel room.

Dean is surlier than usual, while Sam is quiet and pensive. Castiel for once doesn't know what to do with himself when the brother's lay down to sleep. Normally he would leave, spend his time elsewhere, but tonight he wants to stay.

Dean catches the uncertain look on his face and tosses him a worn t-shirt, gruffly tells him, "Put it on, take off your shoes and jeans, lay on the couch, and close your eyes."

So Castiel does just that.

He lies awake while the Winchesters snore away. He thinks about all the things that happened today and wonders why so much of it bothers him.

 

At the loft Derek rubs a weary hand over his face. Lydia is sound asleep in his bed for which he's grateful. He's not good at comfort and Stiles—

Well, Stiles is on the couch, nose in a musty book, pen-equipped hand poised over a notebook, and muttering.

"Stiles. It's three a.m. Go to bed."

Stiles waves a hand at him.

"Stiles," Derek repeats.

"I'm researching, Derek. I'm fine. You go to bed."

Derek uncrosses his arms and walks over to the boy. He lifts the book out of his hands.

"H-hey!" Stiles makes a swipe at it, but Derek is far too fast for him.

"The research can wait until after you've had some rest."

"But...someone ripped a woman's heart out of her chest. Doesn't that sound like a pressing matter to you?"

"Your insomnia is more pressing."

Stiles' spine stiffens. "I don't have insomnia, Derek."

His heartbeat doesn't stutter, but Derek knows better. "That's what you believe."

Stiles sighs. "I'm fine, Derek."

"I know Scott probably can't recognize it. Or Malia or Liam. But I can, Stiles," Derek says, shutting the tome and setting down.

"And what's that?"

"The smell of anxiety," Derek says.

Stiles scoffs. "Everybody has anxiety, Derek."

"You don't have everybody's anxiety though."

Stiles is silent.

"Stiles," Derek says.

"All right. So I don't get a lot of sleep. And I haven't for a while now. But I'm functioning. I'm fine."

"You may be functioning. But you're not fine," Derek counters.

"And what would you know about it, Derek?" Stiles asks, surging to his feet. He gets into Derek's face and keeps his voice at a harsh whisper in deference to the two sleeping girls. "What would you know about being anxious? Huh? You're a big, strong werewolf and you always have been and if something is coming for your daughter, you know you can do something about it.

"But, I can't, Derek. I can't do anything about it. I just found out I'm a witch four days ago and I've learned some fancy schmancy protective wards, but I still can't do _shit_ , Derek. I can't defend myself or anybody else and somebody died tonight and the person who killed her is coming for the baby in that crib over there and that means that they're _here_ , Derek. They found her. They're in Beacon Hills and they are coming for Emma and I _cannot_ be responsible for losing someone else, Derek, do you understand? I _can't_."

Stiles seethes at Derek, all his pent-up frustration finally blowing the lid.

Derek stares right back into Stiles' furious eyes and says, "You've only known you're a witch for four days."

"Yeah. I said that."

Derek shakes his head. "I mean you've only known you're a witch for four days: so one expects you to be an expert less than a week after you learn about something. I know you're good, Stiles, but you're not that good. And you've never been helpless or powerless in all the time I've known you. Human or not, you've saved my life many times. You may not think that's worth much, but I do."

Stiles' anger simmers to a low boil and he holds Derek's hazel gaze. "Stop acting like your life isn't worth much, Derek. Because it is, okay? I wouldn't have kept saving it if it weren't."

"This isn't about me."

"Dammit, Derek. It's not about me, either. It's about _us_. It's about the Pack. It's about all the lives that we can't save. Our own people, Derek, that we can't save, that _I_ can't save."

Derek holds his gaze when he says, "Allison wasn't your fault."

Stiles anger returns, he nearly vibrates with it. "I believe that as much as _you_ believe Erica and Boyd weren't _your_ fault."

"Stiles—"

"I'm done with this conversation, Derek. You want me to go to bed? Fine. I'm going to bed. Good night." Stiles takes off up the spiral staircase.

Derek watches him go.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! I return to you with a chapter that is unfortunately a little shorter than usual. Also, this is probably kind of rough because I didn’t spend as much time on it as I normally do, and that’s…kind of how this writing thing works, isn’t it? Yeah, yup. So not only is it shorter than normal, it’s rougher than normal. And it's like half flashback. So I'm super sorry, because you waited so long for another chapter and then I give you this garbage. The good news is: there’s a sex scene! The bad news is: it's with an OMC… I am literally the worst. I will try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible to make it up to you. Thank you for staying tuned, lovelies!

When morning comes, the Sheriff brings a change of clothes for Stiles, the I.D. on last night's victim, and Parrish burdened with a stack of reports and files. He leaves all three with Derek, Stiles, and Lydia and then heads into the station, but not before planting a kiss on Emma's head.

Parrish, oddly enough, has a change of clothes for Lydia.

"How…?" Stiles asks.

"I asked him to," Lydia supplies. The look she shoots Stiles has him shutting his trap.

The woman was one Nora Vance; thirty-seven; divorced; a bank teller. It doesn't give them much insight. For all appearances the victim was randomly chosen; it was the heart that was the goal of the killing and it seems it didn't matter whose it was.

Stiles dives back into his research, picking up where he left off on supernatural and magical uses for a heart.

He and Derek don't speak about last night.

It doesn't take long before Stiles pulls his head out of the pages and stares off into the middle distance.

"I know that look," Lydia says, peering at him from under her lashes. "What are you thinking?"

From the couch Parrish looks up from the reports he brought and pays attention to the pair at the table. Derek listens from his place by the crib across the room.

Stiles squints, nose crinkling. "I'm not sure yet. But I'm getting there...They needed the heart intact."

"Right," Lydia says.

"Well, there's not a whole lot of," Stiles waves a hand for lack of a better descriptor, "creatures that need hearts in one piece. Humans need hearts in one piece."

It's Lydia's turn to squint. "What are you saying…?"

"I'm saying…" and here Stiles finally looks directly at her, "that all signs are pointing to another witch being behind all this."

One strawberry blonde brow rises. "A witch is behind all our witch killings."

"I think so. Hearts, whole hearts, are needed for spellwork. Most other big uglies just, you know, eat them right out of the chest cavity. But a witch…" Stiles looks down at the book in front of him. He flips a few pages, eyes scanning over lines of text he's already absorbed, just to check himself. "There are quite a few spells that won't work if the required organs are damaged."

Lydia nods.

Derek comes up behind Stiles, Emma leaned on one shoulder. His broad hand covers her tiny back.

"So a witch is killing other witches," he says.

Stiles nods. "I think so. And one poor hapless victim, who happened to have a beating heart."

Lydia tucks her chin in her hand. "That begs the next question."

Stiles nods again, gaze far away and mind whirring. "Why?"

"Why is a witch killing other witches?" Derek says.

"And why did they need some random person's heart?" Lydia says.

"Assuming they're a witch, they needed the heart for a spell," Stiles says.

"But which spell?" Lydia asks.

" _That_ , I think, is the most pressing question right now," Stiles says. "Let's focus on that."

"Agreed," Lydia says.

Derek looks at Stiles. "I was going to grab a quick shower, but I can wait."

"I'll take her," Parrish says, rising and rubbing his eyes. He can't have gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep last night. "I need a break." He crosses the length of the loft and reaches out to take Emma.

"She's been too fussy to put down in the crib," Derek informs him.

"Somebody is a morning person," Stiles says, turning around on the stool to face them. He brushes a hand over Emma's baby-soft hair. "Thanks, man. I'd take her, but I'm about to zone and Derek knows better than to pass an infant over to me in that state."

Derek snorts.

"Zone?" Parrish asks.

Lydia passes Stiles a pad of paper and pen without looking up from her printout.

Stiles says, "Too much information, not enough processing power," and accepts them from her. "I gotta let the cogs turn for a bit."

"And the pen and paper?" Parrish says.

Stiles grins, quick and sly. "I think too fast for myself sometimes. Writing slows me down enough to actually notice things. That's the thing about not knowing what you're looking for: sometimes you're looking right at it without even realizing it."

"Very true," the deputy says.

"So I'll write everything down, every use for a heart in a spell, and discard them as I go. Even if I know they're wrong, I write them down." He taps his head with the pen. "Clears the space up here. Gets it out of my brain and out of the way."

Parrish raises his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

"That's so. It's the only way my little ADHD brain can sort through so much information. Keeps my hands busy, keeps my brain busy." Stiles wiggles his fingers as if to demonstrate.

"Get ready for a lot of muttering," Lydia says, closing a book.

Stiles grins, guilty as charged. Derek smirks and thanks Jordan for taking Emma before disappearing through the gaping hole in the brick wall behind Lydia.

"I'd get out of the way," Lydia says, standing and heading for the couch with a few reading materials.

"Why?" Parrish asks, puzzled.

"You don’t want to be in flailing range when he finally finds what he’s looking for," Lydia says.

"Hey, I only do that sometimes," Stiles says in defense.

Lydia gives him a flat look. "More than half."

Stiles shrugs. "Energy's gotta get out somehow."

Parrish wisely takes the advice and returns to the couch with Emma.

Stiles takes up the notepad and pen. "All right. Now. Show me the magic," he says and writes down _Love._

 

Upon waking Sam yawns hugely and then shuffles in and out of the bathroom. He grabs the keys and says he's going to get breakfast. Dean grunts and then takes his turn in the bathroom.

He comes out, freshly showered and changed, to find Castiel mulling over his new clothing choices.

"Just pick something, Cas. It's not a big deal."

Cas picks an outfit similar to the one Dean is wearing.

Dean is rubbing his hands wearily across his face, when Castiel asks, "Will you teach me how to tie shoelaces?"

Dean lowers his hands and blinks a few times at the angel where he sits on the edge of Dean's bed with his feet in the boots from yesterday, laces in disarray.

"Can't you just will 'em tied again?"

"Yes. But I'd like to learn."

"Uh. Sure," Dean says and takes up the spot next to Cas.

He unties one of his own boots and then goes about showing Cas how it's done. Cas pays very rapt attention, per usual, and completes the task with mediocre success.

"Not bad," Dean says. "You just need to practice a bit and they'll get tighter."

Cas undoes his laces and starts again.

It's quiet for a few beats as Dean watches Castiel's hands work through the motions.

Then Cas says, "You don't like the idea of fornicating with me."

 _That_ throws Dean for a loop. He looks at the angel, eyes bugging out of his head.

"What the _hell_ are you talking about, Cas?"

"Yesterday. In the clothing store. I heard you talking with Lydia and Stiles while I changed."

"Oh. Yeah. That. Well, I mean...we're not like that, so why wouldn't I correct them?"

"I do not believe it was merely a correction. You protested quite vehemently."

"Okay. Yeah, maybe I did," Dean says. "So?"

"So is the idea really that repulsive to you?"

Dean gapes at Cas, speechless. _Where had that come from?_

Castiel, having finished tying his shoes again, sits up and looks at Dean calmly. "I know that you prefer females, Dean, and that my vessel is quite obviously male, but I had thought you were okay with the idea of homosexuality. You are friends with Charlie, are you not?"

"Yeah, I'm friends with Charlie. Of _course_ , I'm friends with Charlie," Dean says, aggravated now. "Cas, I don't have a problem with gay people."

"Oh." Cas' eyes drop to stare past Dean's elbow. "It's just me you have a problem with then."

"Cas, _what_ —" Dean pulls back, shakes his head hoping this will make more sense if he clears it.

It doesn't.

"Cas," Dean tries again. "It wasn't about you."

"Then what was it about?"

Dean sighs and rubs a hand on his face. He doesn't reply.

Cas continues, "It seemed to me that you found the idea _absurd_. Like being " _in bed_ " with me would be preposterous. I fail to see the reason for your adamant denial, Dean. It's illogical perhaps, but a simple 'no' would have sufficed, I think. I don't see why you had to—to project such _disgust_ toward the idea."

"Cas…" Dean peers at the angel. "Did I...did I hurt your feelings?"

Cas' back straightens imperceptibly, but Dean catches it and recognizes it for what it is: a defense mechanism.

"My feelings are not hurt, Dean. I am merely trying to understand."

"Nuh uh," Dean challenges. "Your feelings are hurt. Because I said we aren't together?"

"Because you acted _repulsed_ by the idea!" Dean reels back in the face of the angel's unexpected outburst. "What's so wrong with me that you would not even conceive to lie with me?"

"Cas, it's not a big deal. I don't sleep with guys—"

Castiel cuts him off. "Don't you dare try to say that. You may prefer women, Dean, and you may not have been with a man in the time that I have been on Earth with you, but I know that you have been with one before."

Dean's expression immediately darkens. His voice is low and dangerous. "How the hell do you know that, Cas?"

Cas looks caught out, his argument suddenly vanished in the face of his guilt. His eyes trail the carpet and he eventually says, "I have access to all of history, Dean. It's not so hard to look something up."

Dean can't believe what he's hearing. "So you...you retro-spied on me?" he spits.

Castiel shrugs. Which is an odd enough movement on the angel that Dean's eyes are drawn away by it, eyes scanning the plaid-clad shoulders before returning to his face.

"What part of "stay the _hell_ out of my head" didn't you understand, Cas?" Dean wants to know.

"It wasn't your head," Castiel argues plainly.

"It's the same goddamn thing and you know it, Cas!" Dean shouts. "Why in the hell would you even go looking for something like that?"

"I didn't. Not specifically. It was a significant event in your past so I was led there—"

" _Significant?_ " Dean hisses. " _Significant?!_ It was—It—It was a one-time thing and it wasn't fucking _significant_ , Cas!"

"Your soul would argue otherwise."

Dean seethes. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. Finally, he boils over.

"What the hell kind of right do you have to go digging around in my past, in my _soul_ like that anyway? Why would you even—Did you fucking _watch?_ What the hell were you trying to accomplish there, Cas? Huh?"

Castiel carefully doesn't answer Dean's first or second questions. To the third, he says, "I've tried to understand you, Dean."

Dean's eyes narrow. "And? Did you?"

Cas finally looks at him again. "Did I what?"

"Did you "understand" me?"

The angel's eyes drop again. "No. As much as I could glean from your past, it still never added up to who you are today."

"Guess humans are a little more complicated than you thought. Takes more than _snooping_ to know 'em."

"I did not mean to invade—"

"Yeah, well, you did," Dean snaps. "How could you do that, Cas? Just dig into my past like that? I was _nineteen_ when that happened, for God's sake! It was a long time ago! It has basically nothing to do with who I am now, and really, it didn't have much to do with who I was then either! I was a teenager and I was offered something new so I tried it. End of story."

"Did you like it?"

The question comes unbidden, but it's out there and Castiel can't take it back now. He kind of wishes the opposite were true though. Dean is looking at him like Castiel has besmirched the name of Mary Winchester, like there's very little holding him back from knocking his teeth right out of his vessel's head.

"I think this conversation is over," Dean says, snatching up his jacket and turning his back on him.

"Dean—"

"That's _private_ , Cas," Dean interrupts, without turning to face him. "All right? It's not for you to just find out about with your angel powers without even asking me if that's an okay thing for you to do. And don't you _dare_ do it again. Or take a peek inside my head. None of _that_ either."

"Yes. Okay…" Castiel says. Staring at the rigid line of Dean's back, Cas can see he's messed up pretty badly. He found out something _private_ about Dean without permission and now Dean is mad. Cas understands that he's _violated_ Dean, violated their friendship, their trust. He didn't mean to do that; he hadn't known just what he would find when he went looking. He was just trying to understand.

After a long strained silence, Castiel says, "I am sorry, Dean. I should not have snooped about matters so...personal."

"Yeah. You shouldn't have. But I guess you did."

And that’s the end of it. Dean walks out of the motel room without another word.

 

When Sam arrives back with the food and coffee and asks where Dean is, Cas replies truthfully.

"I don't know."

The angel stands, staring out the window. It’s odd to see him in a pair of jeans and a flannel, and yet somehow completely normal all the same.

Sam peers closely at Cas as he sets the bags and cardboard tray down on the chipped veneer of the tabletop. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. Fine.”

Clearly not.

Sam digs into the bags, finding his breakfast. He needles a little more. “Did you guys have a fight or something?”

Cas looks at him then, brow drawn even lower than normal. “I wouldn’t call it a fight.”

Sam’s eyebrows pop up. “And that means…”

“It was rather one-sided,” Castiel says, coming to stand next to Sam. His fingers trace the lid of the unclaimed coffee cup.

Sam watches it happen and chooses not to comment on it. Instead he says, “I’m assuming it was Dean doing the fighting then.”

“Yes. Not that it wasn’t deserved.”

“Care to share?”

“No,” Castiel says. His hand drops away from the cup and he turns his back to Sam.

“Okay,” Sam says easily. He puts his hands on the table and waits.

Cas glances over his shoulder at him. Sam continues to wait.

Finally, Cas sighs and faces Sam again. “I did something I shouldn’t have. Again.”

“Okay.”

“It upset Dean. Greatly.”

“Okay.”

“I…it happened in the past. Before—“ Cas shakes his head. “I never would have brought it up, but something happened yesterday and I was….It caused me to…”

“ _You_ got upset,” Sam supplies.

“Yes,” Cas says, gaze far-off, mind in a memory. “I suppose I did though I am not sure why. Dean said it was because it “hurt my feelings”.”

“And? Did it?”

Cas looks down at him. “I don’t know. I’m an angel, I’m not even supposed to have “feelings”.”

Sam says the only thing he can to that. “But you do have them, Cas. And maybe you should start paying a little more attention to them.”

Castiel doesn’t reply. His eyes drop to the carpet, pensive. Sam kindly turns his attention to ripping the plastic off his spoon and lets the angel think.

 _One day,_ Sam thinks to himself, _they’ll get there._

 

Dean finds himself in the woods, roughly a half a mile from the crappy motel. God, there's woods everywhere in this town. No wonder there's so much crap that goes bump in the night here.

The hunter stares up through the treetops, catching large swatches of sky in between the foliage. Everything smells earthy and green. The bounty of spring is in full swing.

"God dammit," he curses, head dropping, boot scuffing the dirt.

Dean remembers the night Cas was talking about. _Vividly_.

He'd been nineteen years old, already an old pro at wooing women into bed. He and Dad had been in between hunts, camping out in a motel in Oregon until the next case came along. With free time on his hands Dean hadn't really known what to do with it, but figured trying out a college party might be fun.

It wasn't hard to find one. A university was twenty miles from the motel parking lot. Dad let Dean take the Impala out on account of being passed out on the couch; Sammy had already been in bed for an hour, sound asleep. Dean cruised until he found what he was looking for, a noisy house full of young adults trying their hardest not to be adults for a night.

Dean parked and entered the party with all his usual confidence. He was almost immediately propositioned by a cheeky blonde with too much make-up. She was at least five beers in and Dean brushed her off, holding out for a slightly less drunk partner. Besides, he'd only just arrived and he wanted to hang for a bit, check out how these things went.

Two more girls made a move on him, both attractive and more than willing, but for whatever reason, Dean just wasn't feeling them. He'd had girls like them— _dozens_ of girls like them. Maybe he was just looking for a change that night, just wanted something different for once. Perhaps he could have found it with an older woman alone at some bar; or with a divorcée out for new blood; or maybe even with a drunk bride-to-be. But there weren't any of those at the frat party and Dean's prospects weren't looking so good.

Yet another giggling twenty year-old hit on him and yet again Dean politely declined. He sighed, tipping back his clichéd red solo cup, emptying it of its subpar contents.

"Not to your taste?"

The voice comes from his right and Dean turns to see a boy in front of the stairs leaning casually against the wall. He's maybe two or three years older than Dean, a man technically, but he's still young, still not quite grown into his widening shoulders or his six some-odd feet of height, same as Dean. He's a good-looking guy though, past the awkwardness of puberty and settling well into the tall, dark, and handsome category that, in a few years, he will probably dominate.

He grins at Dean when their eyes meet.

"The beer?" Dean questions. He doesn't like it particularly, but he didn't think he'd done anything to reflect that opinion.

"No…" the guy drawls. "The girl."

Dean blinks. "Oh," he says and glances in the direction said girl went. "Yeah. I guess not."

"I can't help but notice that's the fourth one you've turned down tonight."

Dean is instantly on alert, spine going straight and shoulders widening into an offensive stance. "You been watching me?" he demands.

The man smirks. "Please. Everyone with eyes has been watching you tonight. I don't recognize you. You a transfer?"

"Just visiting," Dean says. He's already silently cataloguing everything about the man. If he is a potential threat, Dean wants to have him sized up.

"Ah. Well…" the man straightens up from the wall now, smile warm as he edges closer to Dean. He lays a hand on Dean's arm and the hunter goes tense until the next words come that come out of the stranger's mouth register. "If you _are_ interested in a little fun tonight, _I'd_ be happy to oblige you. The way those girls can't."

Dean's eyes go shock-wide and he looks at the guy, who is suddenly very close to him, leaning in and casting a seductive gaze upon Dean.

 _Oh_.

"You're...you're hitting on me," Dean says, dumbfounded.

The man huffs and glances up to the ceiling before looking back at Dean. "No. I'm selling you a car."

"Uh. Sorry," Dean says haltingly. "I just never...this has never…"

"You've never been hit on by a man before?"

"Uh. Yeah. That'd be it."

The man laughs. It's sort of a nice sound, deep and rich. "Have you ever thought about being with a man?"

"Can't say that I have," Dean replies, brow furrowed. He's still not _quite_ grasping the situation.

"Are you thinking about it now?" the stranger asks lowly.

The answer is: yeah. Yeah, he is.

All Dean allows is, "Maybe."

"Wanna head upstairs and think about it some more?" the man asks coyly.

Well. Dean _had_ been in the mood for something different tonight. He figures it can't get much more different than this.

"Sure," he finds himself saying. Now, he thinks, this is more than just a fun way to pass the time tonight. Now it's a matter of curiosity.

They climb the stairs and Dean isn't ashamed that he takes the opportunity to watch the guy's ass as he moves up the steps. It's not bad to look at.

They find an empty bedroom and Dean's bed-partner-to-be snatches the sock from the inside of the door handle and puts it on the outside one.

The clicking of the lock into place is something that makes the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up.

"Relax," the man says. He must look nervous; he certainly feels nervous. Which is ridiculous. Dean Winchester? Nervous about sex? Not since he was fifteen.

The guy comes over to him, wraps his arms around Dean's waist and leans his body into Dean's. They're almost the same height, but the guy looks to have an inch or so on Dean. The planes of his chest are firm, the bulge of his biceps visible through his shirt. Dean can't quite reconcile the shape of him with being held.

"What's your name?" the stranger asks.

"Dean."

"Dean," he repeats, smiling. "I'm Caleb."

"Nice to meet you," Dean says automatically.

Caleb laughs. "Nice to meet you, too, Dean," he says, eyebrows raised mockingly.

"Sorry. I...reflex…"

"It's okay. Like I said, relax," Caleb murmurs, this time into Dean's ear, along his jaw.

Dean shudders when the man's hands slip under his shirt and over his back.

"God, you're fit," Caleb mutters, more to himself than to Dean.

"Th...thanks," Dean says for lack of a better response.

Caleb seems to think Dean's complete unease is cute, because he pulls back and smiles. He asks, "I'm going to assume it's all right if I take the lead on this one, hm?"

Dean swallows. "Uh. Yeah. Yeah, sure."

"Relax," Caleb repeats one more time, running his hands along Dean's arms soothingly.

Dean finally does, taking a deep breath and letting the tension leave his body when he exhales.

"Good," Caleb tells him and then throws him down onto the bed.

Dean is instantly tense again, every muscle in his body coiled tight, ready for a fight.

Caleb laughs, kneeling on the bed in between Dean's legs. "God. You're acting like I'm trying to kill you or something."

Dean bites his tongue to hold back the comment about how that's not so unusual for him.

He studies Caleb for a second, hunter's instincts taking over. When he's satisfied that all he sees is a horny guy trying to get laid and not a very different kind of "horny" guy, he relaxes again. Minutely. He still doesn't like being manhandled.

Except he sort of does—when Caleb grins mischievously and wraps his hands around Dean's ankles and _tugs_. Dean goes sliding to the end of the bed and Caleb drops down to his knees on the floor.

"I promise I'm not trying to kill you," he purrs. "Not literally anyway. Let's see if I can get you a little less high-strung, a little more strung out, hm?"

Dean doesn't even have anything to say in return, because just then Caleb's hand slides up over Dean's crotch and a bolt of pleasure shoots up his spine and overrides everything else.

Caleb caresses his crotch like a goddamn master of sex or something. Up and over it, down and around it, teasing, then a slower drag and a squeeze that's the fucking _perfect_ amount of pressure.

"Damn…" Dean mutters, unable to help himself, cock growing thick.

Caleb smirks knowingly. "That's what's so great about same-sex stuff," he informs Dean, "you know _exactly_ what feels good…"

Caleb's fingertips trail over Dean's zipper, dragging the tab down with them, while the other hand pops the button at the top.

"...and what feels…" Caleb says as he leans in close, " _great_." Then he's laying his mouth over Dean's cock, right through his underwear and Dean spasms like he was electrocuted.

"Oh god," he gasps.

Caleb forgoes any further boasting in lieu of mouthing along Dean's dick. The underwear is still on and it's _still_ the best goddamn thing anyone's ever done with Dean's dick. Dean's had blow jobs before, more than one in a high school bathroom, and he's enjoyed them, but this? This is like the classic rock of blow jobs. Caleb's right, he knows exactly what spots to hit and he works it like a pro—especially when the underwear comes off.

His hands slip under the waistband of Dean's underwear and in a smooth movement he shifts the fabric down and frees Dean's cock. Dean's fully hard now and Caleb moves in, wrapping his hot lips around the head and sucking.

Dean bucks under him.

" _Sh_ — _it!_ "

Caleb reaches up and brackets Dean's hips with his hands, holding him in place, holding him _down_. It shouldn't be so damn hot, but _god_ , if it isn't.

Dean's panting now, breathy and stuttering. Caleb's head bobs and his tongue works _miracles_ as he strokes Dean's orgasm out of him.

Dean comes so suddenly, he can't even warn Caleb in time. It doesn't matter because Caleb just latches on and drinks him down. Damn… Dean's never had anyone do that before. It's _incredible_.

The world fades back from white and Dean's breath finally returns to his lungs. He lays there, breathing heavily for a moment, blissfully unaware of absolutely everything.

He hears Caleb shuffling around, hears the familiar foil crinkle of a condom wrapper. The next thing he knows Caleb is kneeling up over him and dragging him back up the bed. He follows Dean down, laying over him and sealing his mouth over his. It's the strangest goddamn taste a kiss has ever had, but Dean finds he kind of likes it. Finds something thrilling about the thought of himself on this other man's lips, finds something erotic in the scrape of Caleb's stubble on his chin.

Then Caleb is slithering back down Dean's body. His hands tug at Dean's jeans and briefs, yanking them down to his ankles. He manhandles Dean yet again into a position on his hands and knees this time. Dean is too damn sexed-out to make much sense of anything. He finally figures it out, when a slick finger pops into his ass.

Dean cries out sharply, thankful for the deep bass from downstairs that will cover the noise. The finger was a surprise, although Dean doesn't know why. He knew how this went, but he just didn't put it together, thought maybe this would be just the same as with girls and he'd be the one sticking his dick somewhere. But that's not how it's happening.

"You're all right," Caleb tells him, petting a hand over Dean's ass cheek. "It's going to feel funny at first, but I promise I'll make you feel so good, baby."

Dean pants, unable to process the feeling of Caleb's finger wriggling around in his ass. Then there are _two_ fingers; the pressure ups and Dean moans.

"Yeah, that's right," Caleb says. "Give it to me, baby."

Dean doesn't know what he wants him to give him, but he feels his anus spasm around the intruding fingers, walls clenching tightly. Caleb scissors his fingers and Dean's whole body quakes.

He adds a third finger and Dean squirms.

"Just a little more, Dean, baby, it's all right."

It's not all right; it's weird and uncomfortable.

But then Caleb digs deep and touches something that lights Dean up head to toe with pleasure.

"G-god," Dean stutters, dropping one arm to an elbow. He's surprised the rest of his limbs don't give out as well.

"There it is," Caleb murmurs and plows into it again.

Dean jolts. The pleasure—it's _unbelievable_. Dean had heard about stimulating the prostate before, sure, but _god,_ he never imagined it would feel like this.

Caleb's fingers bend and curl and spread and he dips deeper to touch Dean's prostate one more time, before the fingers are slipping out, too fast, too soon.

Dean gasps. _God_ , Caleb can't give him something like that and then just leave him there. " _More_ ," he begs in spite of himself.

"I know, baby, I got you, don't worry," Caleb says. There's a zipper and denim being fiddled with. The condom wrapper is ripped open. Then Dean hears a slick sound that's got to be Caleb lubing up his dick.

Just when Dean thinks he's about to go crazy, Caleb grips his hips and lines himself up.

It's catastrophic to Dean's nervous system. There's too many sensations all at once, bouncing around him like a mad game of pinball. Dean is lost in them. In the way Caleb's fingers dig into his hips hard enough to bruise; in the feeling of his ass cheeks being parted; in the hard press of Caleb's head at his hole, firm and insistent and _big_.

Then Caleb starts pushing in.

Dean whines. It hurts, it stings, it's _too much_.

"Sh, sh, sh," Caleb soothes, "I got you, baby."

He pauses, waits for Dean to adjust, to relax again. Then he presses in further.

Dean can feel his rim spreading wide as he takes it all in; the sensation makes him want to claw something to pieces and he finds himself gripping the bedsheets, white-knuckled.

"Sh, sh, sh," Caleb says again, then waits.

When he presses in again, Dean thinks it may kill him.

Caleb's inside all the way now, Dean can feel his hips pressed up against his ass. The man groans, fingers twitching around Dean's pelvis.

"God…" he says. "Tight, little virgin ass...you feel so good."

Dean can't respond.

Caleb exhales heavily and one hand comes up to stroke over Dean's back. "Just relax, Dean. You'll get there."

Dean doesn't believe him. This feels like it's going to last forever, like this pain splitting him down the middle is what's going to end him.

But Caleb was right again and slowly Dean's body adjusts. It's starts to feel less like an axe in his ass and more like a blunt pressure, slightly uncomfortable maybe, but overall not too painful.

"There you go. Perfect," Caleb praises.

His hand slides back to mirror its twin on Dean's hips. Once he's got a firm grip, he pulls back.

When he pushes back in, Dean's eyes flare wide. The friction is _delicious_. Caleb pumps into him several times, lighting Dean's body up, but then—But then Caleb shifts his angle ever so slightly and hits Dean's prostate again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Dean makes a sound he wasn't even aware he was capable of uttering, something like a choked groan.

Caleb speeds up, faster now, _harder_ now. The bed begins to lurch back and forth under them, knocking into the wall as Caleb rides his ass.

Dean is lost in white-hot waves of pleasure, rolling over him one after the other, each like a tsunami in their intensity. He's not even sure he's still breathing, but god, he doesn't care. He only cares about the sensations Caleb's wringing out of him.

Dean's cock twitches, interested in getting back in the game. He's getting hard again and he's pretty sure if Caleb can keep this up, he'll orgasm again, too.

Caleb may actually be a sex god, because, aided by Dean's youthful libido, he pounds into Dean long enough to bring him to semi-hardness again. Then Caleb's fingers clench and Dean knows he must be close.

"Dean," Caleb groans, but Dean doesn't return the favor.

He cries out wordlessly when Caleb thrusts into him one final time, hard and deep. The man over him shudders as he comes, hips rolling slightly against him.

Dean is on shaky limbs now and he wants to reach back for his own erection, but knows he'll collapse if he does. Fortunately, Caleb, who seems to be a very attentive lover, takes notice of it and pulls out of Dean before flipping him over onto his back.

What Dean is not expecting next is for Caleb to grab another condom and rip it open with his teeth.

"Wha…?" Dean asks, sex-dazed and confused.

Caleb seems pretty glassy-eyed himself, but he keeps his wits about him enough to get the condom on Dean's dick.

"Oh," Dean says stupidly.

"Yeah. Oh," Caleb says breathlessly.

He strokes Dean a few times, coaxing him to full hardness. Then without ceremony Caleb shoves three of his fingers up his own ass and begins pumping them.   

"Jesus," Dean curses at the sight of him. He's knelt over Dean, leaned back as he braces himself on one hand and rides the other.

"Shit, did you even…" Dean starts, but he loses all concern for Caleb's level of lubrication as the man tips his head back and moans.

It's the raunchiest, sexiest thing Dean's ever seen.

Caleb gasps, body jerking slightly as he works his hole. Then he withdraws his hand and goes for more lube.

Dean had completely forgotten about his own hard-on for a few seconds, enraptured by Caleb fucking himself on his fingers. He remembers it when Caleb drizzles lube over it and slicks him up without preamble.

"God!" Dean yelps.

Caleb has a wild look in his eye as he tosses the empty packet aside and climbs over Dean. "Shut up and fuck me," he says and then drops himself onto Dean's dick.

"F-f-fuck."

Dean's head rolls back into the pillows as Caleb sets an unrelenting pace. He rides Dean's cock beautifully, powerful thighs flexing as he ruts.

Dean isn't even in the right mind to reciprocate the movement. His hips buck of their own accord and some thrusts he meets dead-on, but some he stutters through.

But it doesn't matter, none of it matters, because it's the greatest fuck of Dean's life, he's sure of it.

When Dean climaxes again, he swears he sees actual stars. He thinks he blanks out for a few minutes, because the next time he's paying attention Caleb is sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling up his jeans.

"Oh, god," Dean groans.

Caleb throws him a smirk. "Fucked beyond belief?" he asks.

"Yes," Dean answers emphatically.

Caleb stands up, tosses the remnants of their romp into a waste bin. He stands over Dean, hands on his hips and smiles.

"Maybe I'll give you another ride some time."

"Yeah. Maybe," Dean says, even though he knows he'll likely never see the man again.

"Don't be a stranger, hot stuff," Caleb says, heading for the door. Hand on the knob he says, "This was fun. Remember to move the sock when you leave. Bye, Dean."

"Bye."

The door clicks shut and then Dean's laying there, alone, with his dick out and his pants around his ankles.

"Damn," he says and goes about putting himself back together.

He's never been on the receiving end of a love-'em-and-leave-'em, but he supposes that's exactly what this just was. A nice fuck and then sayonara.

Huh.

Dean feels strangely contradictory about the whole experience. On the one hand: _damn_. But on the other hand, he just fucked a man and let a man fuck him and then _he's_ the one left lying there alone.

Dean's never felt so satisfied and sick at the same time.

He gets himself in order, tries to make himself at least slightly presentable. He goes to the door, switches the sock around, and leaves that house never to see it or Caleb again.

Dean sighs through his nose at the memory. As messed up about it as he felt for liking it so much, going back to the motel to get reamed out by John had not helped. He'd been yelled at for leaving, for leaving Sam, for taking the car. _What if there had been an emergency, Dean?_ he'd shouted. _Would getting some tail have been worth it then?_ After that Dean had tucked any and all feelings he had about the night away for good.

Until now that is.

It feels like such a long time ago, yet Dean still remembers the feeling that Caleb's stubble-burn left in the creases of his thighs.

"Damn," Dean says and starts heading back to the motel.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! Long time no talk-to. But I'm back with a new chapter! Just dropping more plot breadcrumbs. Hope you enjoy~

Dean's cell phone starts ringing, when the motel is within sight. He fishes it out and glances at the screen. It's a number he doesn't recognize, but that's never stopped him from answering before.

"Hello?"

"Dean!" the voice on the other end enthuses. It's the kid.

"Stiles. Why are you calling me and not Sam?"

"Your name came up first. Dean!"

"What, kid?"

"Lydia and I found something we think may be incredibly relevant to a heart being ripped out of a random bank teller's chest. And no it's not cursed werewolves."

"I didn't think it was," Dean says, pushing the door to 107 open. "Too clean a job for that. Werewolves are...messier."

"Hey, I have a lot of friends who take offense to that."

"No, we don't," Dean hears Derek say in the background.

"Nobody asked you, Derek," Stiles says.

When the door is shut, Sam notices the phone at Dean's ear and mouths, "Who's that?"

"The kid. He's got an I.D. on the vic and "relevant information" to a heart being ripped out of someone's chest."

"Yes, very relevant, very important information!" Stiles shouts into the phone.

Dean winces away from it, bringing it back to his ear and saying, "All right, all right. We'll—"

"I'll get him," Castiel says suddenly.

Just as suddenly he's gone and back again, but with Stiles in tow this time.

Stiles for his part looks like he may have actually shit his pants. His face is frozen halfway between fear and general what-the-fuck. His hand is gripping his phone tightly enough that it creaks.

Dean hangs up.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean says sarcastically.

Cas looks at him with distress in his expression. Dean gets it then: Cas is trying to make things up to Dean. By being an overeager beaver apparently.

"It's okay, Stiles," Sam is saying, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder.

This finally unfreezes the teen and he gasps like he was holding his breath. He may have been.

" _Holy shit_ ," Stiles says.

"I know. First trip's rough for everybody," Sam says.

"I was just—And then I was—And then we—I need to sit down."

"Yup. Right here. Here you go," Sam says, guiding Stiles into an ugly armchair.

No sooner has his butt touched the upholstery that his phone starts ringing. Stiles jumps like a gun went off and fumbles it. Fortunately, Sam catches it and passes it back to him in time for him to answer it.

Stiles takes one look at the screen and his expression changes from freaked to fine in zero to sixty.

"I'm okay," he says into the device when he hits answer. "I'm with Sam and Dean and Cas. Cas...angel-teleported me."

So it's Derek, the Winchester brothers surmise; Castiel can hear the werewolf clearly through the line.

"Yeah," Stiles says after a pause, then again after another pause. "Yeah. Maybe next time a little warning, huh, buddy?"

This is directed at Castiel and the angel looks appropriately abashed. "My apologies. Next time I will sufficiently warn you."

There's the sound of indistinct yelling on the other end of the phone.

"Or ask," Stiles says. "Derek says ask."

Cas nods solemnly. "I understand."

"Okay. That's good. Thank you." Stiles turns back to his caller. "Derek. Everything's fine, calm the eff down. Seriously, calm down, you'll make Emma cry." A pause. "Oh. Parrish has the weirdest, yet most useful superpowers." Another slightly longer pause. "No, we'll come back to the loft, geez, chill. We'll be there in like a minute."

"Ah, ah," Dean says. He points to the bags and cups on the table. "After breakfast."

"Oh," Stiles says, practically drooling. "After breakfast. Bye, Derek."

 _"Sti_ — _"_

Stiles hangs up on the werewolf.

"Can I have one of the coffees?" he asks.

"No," Dean says immediately and not just because there are only two, but also because he doesn't ever want to see this kid on caffeine. _Ever._

 

"Longevity," Stiles announces with gusto.

The trio only stares at him.

"As in life?" Sam puts forward after swallowing a bite of parfait.

"Exactly," Stiles agrees, stuffing another hashbrown into his mouth.

"So you think the perp needed the heart to live longer," Dean surmises.

"Yep."

"You believe it is a witch then," Castiel says, connecting the dots.

Stiles worries his bottom lip. "We do."

"So we're thinking that's who killed the Jessops, right?" Dean asks.

"Unfortunately, yeah."

"None of the Jessops were missing their hearts though," Sam points out.

"Right," Stiles says. "So...I'm still pretty stumped on that one actually. I have no idea why a witch would kill a whole coven of witches, if it's not to take their hearts, like with Nora Vance."

"Power?" Dean wonders. "Just sucking it right out of them?"

Castiel frowns. "Merely killing a witch would provide no power to anyone. There has to be something else in the equation. Something that could contain the power for the user."

"Yeah, I already deduced that," Stiles says.

Sam nods. "So the research continues. Witches killing witches, probably for power, missing factor. Got it."

Stiles hums in agreement, eyes already far off as a thousand ideas race through his head. Then he tilts his head. "What if there's like...an amulet or something...maybe?"

Sam pauses. "An amulet."

"Yeah, like...that's what they're using to suck the power out and then store it to use later…when everyone is dead."

"That sounds...plausible. An amulet or another artifact of some kind," Sam says and Cas nods to confirm.

"There are great many things that can store power for a wielder to use," the angel says.

"Great. Let's investigate down that route," Sam says.

Stiles nods in agreement.

Dean wads up the wrapper from his breakfast burrito and sinks it into the wastebasket.

"All right. You both got stuff to do. Let's get you back to Derek's before the dude freaks on us again."

Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically. "He had every right to freak out. I was there and then I wasn't. That would freak anyone, okay."

"Okay," Dean says unconvincingly.

Stiles huffs in irritation, but follows him to the door all the same.

 

Derek is immediately in Castiel's face when they arrive at the loft.

"Never. Do that. Again," Derek says through his teeth. His eyes flash blue as if to remind Castiel that he is a supernatural creature who can rip him apart.

Castiel's brow crinkles. "I have already promised Stiles that I will give him proper warning the next time I wish to transport him." A pause then, "Are you trying to _threaten_ me?" Castiel asks, astounded.

Dean snorts, walking past them. "Trust me, there is nothing you could do to Cas that he would consider threatening," he tells the werewolf. "Us mere mortals can't hurt an angel without some very specific help."

Stiles, a step behind Dean, gets a twinkle in his eye. "What kind of help?"

Dean gives him the stink-eye. "Ask Sam."

Stiles whips around to Sam, startling the man. "Uh…" Sam says. "I can...tell you…sure."

The gleam in Stiles' eye brightens.

"It may be prudent to teach Stiles the sigil for repelling angels," Castiel says, seemingly uncaring of the fact that Derek is still in his space. He's still calmly holding the werewolf's glare.

Stiles' head snaps around. "Why would you want to repel angels? Aren't angels good?"

All three of them, angel included, grow tight-lipped and silent at this.

"Are we missing something here?" Lydia asks, speaking up from her seat on the couch. Parrish is beside her, Emma in his arms, a plush hedgehog in one hand. Lydia is poised over a print-out on the coffee table, legs crossed and chin in one hand.

Dean frowns over at her, then at Stiles. "Shouldn't both of you be in school?"

"We got a murder-pass," Lydia says nonchalantly, flipping a page back.

Parrish smiles uncomfortably.

"Right," Dean says.

"Why should we be worried about angels?" Derek asks, arms crossed and back on point.

Dean and Sam exchange a look.

Sam clears his throat and simply says, "Don't believe everything you read."

Lydia arches a brow; Parrish looks equal parts puzzled and concerned; Derek scowls; Stiles—

—laughs.

Castiel frowns at him. "This is a very serious matter. I do not see why you are laughing."

Stiles' lips quirk. "Because werewolves are real; banshees are real; witches are real—and none of them are what we've been led to believe. Why should angels be any different? This is just our lives," Stiles says and there's a hint of sadness there.

"Smart kid," Dean comments.

Stiles points finger guns at him and clicks his tongue.

Lydia rolls her eyes.

Stiles walks over to the couch, says, "Don't worry, Lydia. You're still the smartest."

"As if there were ever any doubt, Stiles," Lydia replies, resuming her perusal of the lines of text.

Stiles scoops Emma up from Parrish and starts babbling at her. Sam and Dean take up residence at the unofficial research table, the same table the pack used to pour over plans for a bank vault and hit lists with their names on them. Heart-eating witches is certainly new, but not all that unusual for that table. Castiel follows them over.

Stiles loses track of Derek for a brief instant, but when he locates the werewolf again, he's right behind him.

Like right fricking behind him.

Stiles jumps, which causes Emma to fuss, though he's quick to soothe her.

"Geez, Derek, what," Stiles snaps.

"You're okay," he says, not really a question, but warranting an answer all the same.

"Yes, I'm fine. Wouldn't recommend angel-teleporting, but no lasting effects."

Derek's nostrils flare; he doesn't step back even an inch from Stiles. The teen knows he's scenting him, double-checking Stiles' statement. When he seems satisfied, his shoulders slacken to a slightly less hunched position and Derek brings up a hand to stroke over Emma's hair.

Stiles looks between them. "She's doing pretty well so far, huh?"

"Yeah," Derek says softly.

Stiles grins at him and says, "Happiest years of your life, Derek."

Derek huffs and doesn't move away.

Lydia is watching them closely. Parrish's attention is on the police files in front of him and the officer is oblivious to the interaction. Sam and Castiel are similar as Sam clacks away at a keyboard and the angel squints over his shoulder. Dean, however, also notices Derek's behavior, the way his body is positioned protectively around the pair. He suspects it's not just Emma he's guarding and, when he glances over and catches Lydia's eye, he's positive he's not the only one thinking that.

They maintain eye-contact for a moment before their gazes break apart.

"Sam, I hear you're the research guru on your team," the redhead says, eyes tracing the words spread before her once more.

Sam looks up at her and says, "Yeah, I guess."

"So what do you think of all this?" she asks.

Sam inhales through his nose, taking stock of his thoughts on the whole ordeal. He says, "I think Stiles might be onto something with the amulet theory."

"Amulet theory?" Lydia echoes. "What amulet theory?"

Stiles, apparently tuned back into the conversation, steps up to Sam's table, while Derek puts Emma in her crib. "I thought that if this bad witch is killing other witches, theoretically to steal their power, that he or she—"

"He," Parrish pipes up from the couch.

"He?" Stiles asks curiously.

Parrish nods, looking down at a paper in his hand. "Size eleven men's shoe. Print found next to the body."

"That was careless," Castiel says.

"Or the guy is just that confident he won't get caught," Dean says.

Derek nods, agreeing.

"Couldn't have told us that a little sooner, Parrish?" Stiles asks pointedly.

Parrish grimaces. "I...I wanted to check with your dad that it was okay to tell you first."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Boy scout. And did my dad tell you to tell me everything you find because I'll just find out anyway?"

Parrish sighs. "He did."

"That was nice try at following the rules, Parrish."

"Focus, Stiles," Derek says.

"Right, okay. So this witch guy is theoretically stealing power from other witches. We think he might be using an amulet or artifact or something to do it."

Lydia hums. "What sort of amulet or artifact?"

"That," Sam says, "we don't know."

"I doubt the Argent's bestiary would have anything on it," she says.

"Oh, yeah, did you bring it?" Stiles asks, heading her way.

Lydia makes a noise of affirmation and reaches into her purse to pull it out. She brings it over to the table.

"Sweet," Stiles says and takes it from her before showing Sam. "This is our book of nasties."

"Did you say this was the Argents'?" Sam asks, taking it and opening it to a random page.

"Yep," Stiles says. "The family keeps a bestiary. Kept. Keeps. Ish. It's just...uh...just Chris now and he…" Stiles trails off, eyes suddenly hollow.

Lydia shoves Stiles' face to the side and says, "Dirty laundry that doesn't need airing out." But the Winchesters notice the way she threads her arm through Stiles' and squeezes in close to him, the way Stiles snaps out of it and squeezes back. There's obviously something about the Argents being down to one man that has to do with Stiles that no one is willing to share.

Effectively rerouting the conversation, Dean says, "If there's no amulets in that book, then it's of no use to us right now. Sammy, you can drool over it later."

Sam's head pops up and he shakes himself; he had been getting drawn into the book. It has rather exquisite details.

He clears his throat, shuts the book, and sets it down. "Right."

"Let's talk amulets," Lydia announces as Parrish joins them at the table. She asks him, "Find anything?"

"No," the deputy says,

"What you got there?" Dean asks.

Parrish taps his hand on the folders under it. "The report on last night's incident and a report of all the crimes committed in Beacon County since you guys arrived."

Dean nods. "Trying to make connections?"

"Yeah. But I'm afraid I came up with nothing."

"It was unlikely anyway," Lydia says, "but we thought we'd try."

"Can't hurt to look," Sam agrees.

"Hey, Parrish," Stiles says. "Did you find any books in Tara's stuff in evidence?"

Parrish is apologetic. "No. No books. Sorry, Stiles. I'll get you a copy of the list in case you see something I missed."

"Can't I just come look?" Stiles asks, trying too hard for innocent.

"Stiles…" Parrish chides gently. "Telling you about a case is one thing, letting you into the evidence locker is another."

"I'll sneak in anyway, Parrish. You know I will."

Parrish grimaces. "Why don't you ask your dad instead?"

Stiles grins.

Off-hand, Lydia says, "You know Stiles has a pretty strict "ask for forgiveness, not permission" policy with his father, don't you?"

Parrish looks actually, physically pained. "Please don't make me be a part of this."

"Consider yourself removed, Parrish," Stiles says. "But still send me that list anyway."

" _Anyway_ ," Sam says, pulling away from that conversation.

Dean is smiling. "He's as bad as us."

"I said, _anyway_ , Dean," Sam says.

It doesn't stop Stiles and Dean from exchanging grins.

"Amulets," Lydia says, still not bothering to look up.

"Right, right." Stiles drums his fingers on the table, chewing his lip as he thinks.

Derek sees it the moment it happens. "What?"

"I was thinking…" Stiles begins, looking up at a corner of the ceiling, mind churning. "If this witch just needed to kill other witches to usurp their power...why couldn't he just kill random witches? Why the Jessops? Why _all_ of the Jessops? Why is he so dead-set on them to the point of chasing them across the country?"

"That's a good point," Sam says, brain latching onto the idea. "It was the coven he was after."

"Is after," Dean corrects, glancing at the occupied crib.

Derek does the same.

"So a whole coven," Lydia says. "He needs a whole coven dead to do whatever he's doing."

"Right," Sam says, eyes trained on his laptop again.

Stiles fetches his backpack and pulls his mother's Book of Shadows from it. "Since we're positive it's a witch now, I'm going to put up some more wards. Things that will specifically target a witch."

"Good plan," Dean says. "Your house, too."

"Definitely."

Parrish's phone rings and he answers it quickly when he sees who it is. "Sheriff?"

Stiles quirks an ear in his direction, listening in.

"Yes," Parrish says. "Okay. I'll be right there."

"What's up?" Stiles asks.

"The Sheriff has reports from the surrounding counties looking for anything that might indicate our killer has struck elsewhere, since Beacon County was a bust. I'm going to start going through them."

"I'd like to take a look at the body," Dean says to the room at large. "Has anyone done that already?"

"Nope," Stiles says.

"I'm going to the hospital," Derek says. "The Sheriff asked that I take a look. He already asked Melissa—Scott's mother—to get me back there so I can...investigate."

"He means smell it," Stiles says cheekily.

Derek scowls at him.

"I'll come along with you, then," Dean says, drawing Derek's attention back.

"Sure."

Castiel makes to follow Dean, but Dean shoots him an inscrutable look. "Why don't you stay here, Cas."

Cas stops and stares at Dean. "All right," he says eventually.

Stiles and Lydia exchange a questioning glance. Neither knows what's going on there and a glance at Sam confirms he doesn't either. Aiming for a distraction, Stiles speaks up, "Cas, why don't you help me with the wards?"

The angel looks at him and accepts the task with a less than enthusiastic, "Okay."

Dean, Derek, and Parrish head out; Stiles and Castiel work their way around the loft with markers; Lydia and Sam stoop over a mountain of research; Emma sleeps peacefully for the next thirty-eight minutes.

 

They take the Impala to the hospital.

Melissa McCall is a petite, but feisty woman as evidenced when Dean follows Derek to a nurse's station and sees her reaming out a young man for what sounds like reckless behavior.

"—and next time it won't just be your arm, Patrick," she says, wagging a finger at his sling and cast. "You know better. I know you do. Do not endanger yourself like that again. I don't want to see you back here in a body bag."

"Miss McCall, I know, I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I wasn't doing anything that reckless really, I was just out on the balcony, but there was this lady in the road, I swear to god, there was, and she just—"

"You had been awake for nearly forty hours, Patrick. You probably could have seen Godzilla at that point."

"But Miss McCall—"

"I don't wanna hear it. Please take better care of yourself, Patrick."

Patrick hangs his head low. "Okay, Miss McCall."

"Good. Now get checked out. I will see you around _town_. Not here."

"Yes, ma'am."

Her patient dismissed, Melissa turns to other things. Derek steps into her peripheral.

Melissa startles mildly then looks up at him. "Derek."

"Melissa."

"Right. Jonathan said you'd be coming. Come on then." Melissa takes one step away from the nurse's desk and notices Dean. She stops to frown. "Who's this?"

"Dean," Derek says. "He's one of the ones who brought Emma in."

Melissa's frown only deepens. "So he's a hunter."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean says, pasting on a smile. "And he is standing right here, so you can probably stop talking about him in the third person."

Melissa raises her chin. "I don't like hunters much, _Dean_ ," she says directly to him.

"I kind of gathered that."

"But if you're here working with the pack on this mess," she nods in Derek's direction, "you can't be too bad."

"Just trying to do what's right, Miss McCall," Dean says. "That's all we've ever tried to do."

Melissa nods once. "Okay. Call me Melissa. Now let's go."

Melissa leads them down to the morgue and pulls the sheet back from Nora Vance's gurney.

The hole in her chest is grotesquely large.

"Christ," Dean says. "He just cleaved it right out of her, didn't he?"

Derek steps closer to examine the wound. "If you're squeamish, you can leave."

Dean scowls. "Please. I've been hunting my whole life, I'm not squeamish. I still get shocked sometimes is all."

"Derek, are you getting anything?" Melissa asks.

"Magic. It smells like smoke. It smells...old."

Dean raises a brow. "Old?"

Derek nods. "I don't know what that means. But it smells musty."

"Like books?"

"Like anything old."

"Huh." Dean steps in when Derek steps away and surveys the wound. He points, careful not to touch. "Clean cuts. I think they needed it in tact."

"Stiles was right," Derek says."Anything else?"

"Nothing special," Dean says. "Looks like a pretty average butchering to me. Any kitchen knife could have done this. You smell the guy that did this on her?"

"No. Just the magic."

"Right. Well, I say we hit up the site where the body was found. See if you can get anything there."

Derek nods.

"Ma'am," Dean nods to Melissa and they're gone.

The site of the murder is a bust too; there's no trace of magic besides the smudge of it where Nora's corpse had laid, no trail and certainly no evidence of the witch who left it behind. They explore the surrounding woods, track the road that leads nearest to it, but still nothing. They return to the loft and press on with research.

 

In the evening when everyone departs for their respective homes (or motel), Derek stops Stiles at the door.

"I'm not letting you drive like this."

Stiles frowns up at him. "Like what?"

"You're exhausted," Derek informs him, as if Stiles hadn't noticed himself.

Judging by the guilty look that flashes across his face, the teen knew very well the state of his body. It had steadily worsened as the day wore on, the stench of fatigue, the depth of Stiles weariness. Derek had been monitoring him, waiting for him to pass out, but the boy never had. Regardless, there's no way Derek's letting him get behind the wheel of a vehicle.

"I'm fine, I can make it home."

"No. You can't," Derek bites out. "Did you think I wouldn't notice when you went upstairs and _didn't_ fall asleep last night? Rest here for a few hours then go home."

"Derek," Stiles protests.

"Stiles," Derek bites out, grabbing Stiles' by the arm. "Go lie down. Now."

"I would just like to remind you that you are in fact _not_ my father."

"And I would just like to remind you that you can get in the bed yourself or I can _put_ you there," Derek warns.

Stiles makes a face, but relents. " _Fine_ ," he groans. "I'm going, I'm going."

The teen tromps over to Derek's bed and throws the man a sour look as he toes off his shoes and drops his hoodie onto the floor. He keeps eye contact as he climbs under the covers and then quite mulishly crosses his arms and says, "Happy?" once he's settled.

"Delighted," Derek says.

Stiles rolls his eyes, but sinks down into the mattress anyway.

 

Stiles has been passed out for about forty minutes when it starts. At first Derek isn't sure he' isn't awake again: the teen's heartbeat is hammering and he's forming full words.

"No. Please," Stiles says.

Derek stands up from the couch and approaches him cautiously.

"No," Stiles says, louder this time.

"Stiles?" Derek asks, but receives no answer.

"No, no, _no_ ," Stiles starts whispering, a frantic plea.

Derek is only a few steps from the bed now and that's when it happens.

Stiles screams. It's horrible to hear and Derek feels his very bones rattle under the force of Stiles' fear.

Emma begins wailing from her crib, but she'll have to wait, because waking Stiles up is more important than comforting her right now.

"Stiles," Derek shouts, hands bolting out to clamp down on his shoulders.

It only causes Stiles to start thrashing. The screams, impossibly, worsen and Derek decides this is going to take more than shaking his shoulders.

The werewolf moves to sit behind Stiles on the bed. He wraps the teen up in a firm grip, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him still. Stiles struggles, tries to free himself, but it's useless against supernatural strength and that only incites more panic.

"Stiles," Derek demands, but the teen remains lost in his nightmare; Derek's voice is not enough to bring him out of this.

Derek's mind darts to a solution, but he's loathe to do it. He doesn't seem to have a choice though.

His hand snakes under Stiles' shirt collar, over his shoulder. Then Derek lets his claws loose and pierces the flesh high on the sharp curve of bone.

Stiles' whole body jerks; he gasps in a breath and then begins to shake like a leaf. He sobs once, but doesn't shed any tears.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Derek mutters, palming the back of Stiles' head.

Stiles chokes, but pulls himself together, sinks back against Derek's chest and lets the man support his weight.

"Sorry," he says finally.

"Not your fault," Derek says.

"Yeah," Stiles whispers. "Yeah, it is…"

Derek pauses. Then, risking it, he says, "The nogitsune?"

"...Yeah."

Derek knows telling Stiles that it's not his fault is worthless, so instead he asks, "Do you have them often?"

Stiles shrugs noncommittally. That means yes—more than he's willing to admit.

Derek nods against the side of Stiles' temple.

"You should go get Emma."

The baby is still sobbing away pitifully. Derek slides out of bed and grabs up the little girl. He shushes her and rocks her and then brings her to Stiles.

Stiles smiles down at her, briefly up at Derek, as he takes her.

"Hey, sweetie pie…"

"We should clean that up," Derek says, gesturing at Stiles' shoulder. Small blots of blood decorate the seam.

Stiles glances at it, never pausing in his rocking motion. "Oh, yeah. I guess. Doesn't hurt."

"That's the adrenaline still pumping through your system."

"You're probably right."

Derek retrieves the first aid kit he keeps around; he gets torn up too much not to have one in spite of his supernatural healing. And. Well. He seems to keep a lot of company nowadays. Returning to the bed, he sits next to Stiles. Emma has quieted, staring up at Stiles now with big hazel eyes.

Stiles only stops his swaying when Derek puts a hand on his shoulder. The witch looks at the werewolf; something wordless passes between them. There's an unspoken understanding of what's happened tonight that the two share in such a way that they don't need to say anything about it. They both feel blame and guilt and powerlessness in their dreams; they both grapple to keep those things locked down during the day; at night, when they close their eyes, they both can't fight them off anymore. The darkness takes over and all their demons come out with maws open. They can only suffer through the onslaught.

Derek takes Emma from Stiles, eyes never leaving those bright amber ones that feel like falling into light.

"Get your shirt off," Derek instructs.

Stiles nods and Derek goes to put Emma back in her crib. He hums to her for a few moments, a light, lilting melody. It takes a second for Stiles to recognize it; he hasn't heard another person sing that in so long.

"That's my mom's lullaby," he says.

Derek glances over his shoulder at him. "I couldn't quite remember it, but I sort of remembered the melody. She likes it. It seems to do the trick anyway."

Stiles smiles to himself, soft and a little sad.

Once Derek's laid the baby down, he strokes her hair in much the same way that Sheriff Stilinski had done to Stiles last Friday when Derek brought him home drunk and morose. He thinks he's starting to get it now: that look in the Sheriff's eyes when he looks at his son.

Derek finds Stiles bare-chested and inspecting the wound when he turns back around.

"It's not deep," Stiles tells him.

"I know. I didn't want to really hurt you."

Stiles glances up at him, hand still hovering over the bloody punctures. "Just enough pain to wake me up, huh?"

Derek nods.

Stiles' pale skin looks blue in the dim light, his many moles disappear in the shadows. The red of the puncture wounds, made black by the night, look like chasms.

Standing over the bed, Derek opens the kit and takes out antiseptic wipes, then rips the packaging open. Stiles doesn't even flinch, when Derek starts cleaning the wound. If he's being honest, it scares him how used to this Stiles is getting—to death and danger and pain.

He finds a large band-aid and applies it over the tiny holes, hand lingering without his permission. Then he goes to his dresser and digs out a shirt he hands to Stiles.

"Thanks," the teen says before slipping it on.

"We can clean yours," Derek says, picking it up and displaying the splotches of blood.

Stiles shrugs. "Toss it."

Derek does.

When he turns back to the haunted kid sitting there in his bed looking like death and smelling like grief, Derek doesn't know what to do from here.

"I'm so tired," Stiles admits, staring at the bedspread.

"Then sleep," Derek says.

Stiles scoffs. "Sure, okay. 'Cause that worked so well for me the last time I tried it."

Derek considers this for a moment, thinks about what's fueling Stiles' renewed insomnia. "You're scared," he concludes.

Stiles gives him the deadliest look Derek has ever seen on the boy's face, and that includes when he was possessed.

Derek doesn't flinch. "There's nothing wrong with being scared, Stiles."

"I'm not scared, Derek," Stiles says. "I'm _terrified_ , okay? I'm going out of my freaking mind, imagining all the ways that every single one of you could die, and let me tell you, there are a _lot_ of ways. And half the damn time _I'm_ the one killing you."

Derek is quiet for a moment. "Why don't you ask the hunters about possession tomorrow? Maybe there's something they know that can protect against it."

Stiles' eyes light up with that research gleam he gets whenever he latches onto an idea.

" _Tomorrow_ ," Derek says firmly.

Stiles rolls his eyes at him.

"You already warded this place against a lot of things," Derek reminds Stiles. "You're safe here."

"I don't feel safe," Stiles replies immediately. "Ever."

Derek is quiet again.

When he does speak next, it surprises Stiles. "Will you teach me the words to that lullaby?"

Stiles can't stop his mouth from dropping open and he stares for a prolonged moment. Then he seems to come out of it and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, sure, I can do that."

The werewolf does something surprising again. He walks around to the other side of the bed, glancing in the crib as he passes it, then shucks off his jeans. Stiles' eyebrows climb high onto his forehead.

"Derek? Uh, whatcha doin', buddy?"

Derek doesn't reply, only places his cell phone on the bedside table. Then he climbs into the bed and lies back beside Stiles and closes his eyes.

"Derek?"

"Lie down, Stiles."

"O...kay…" Stiles still isn't really sure of what's happening. All he knows is he's in bed with Derek Hale so he's probably still dreaming.

Once Stiles has acquiesced, Derek says, "Now close your eyes."

Stiles sighs.

"Just do it, Stiles."

"Fine," Stiles says and lets his lids fall shut. He can hear Derek's even breathing next to him, feel his body heat from just a few inches away.

"Now. Teach me the song."

Stiles opens his eyes back up and turns his head to look over at the other man.

Derek cracks an eye open and peers back at him. "Close your eyes," he says again, as if he were instructing a small child. "And teach me the song."

Stiles isn't stupid. He can see what Derek is doing here. "And just what do you think will happen when I fall asleep, Derek? It will just happen all over again."

Derek rolls onto his side, props up on an elbow, and Stiles has a really hard time keeping his eyes on Derek's face.

"You put wards up. Good wards, Castiel and Sam said so. Nothing will get you here," Derek says. "Or in your dreams. You're safe. It's okay."

"Derek—"

The werewolf's hand darts out to clamp down on one of Stiles' wrists. Stiles startles and focuses on hazel eyes. Only on those hazel eyes.

"I'm here," Derek says. "Even if something happens—even if _you_ do something—I'm here. And I'll stop you."

Stiles doesn't move, whole body taut like a violin string. But Derek just holds on and eventually the tension floods out of Stiles' body like a great sigh of smoke.

He thinks Derek means it. No, he _knows_ Derek means it. That if it came down to it and Stiles were possessed again, that he would end Stiles' life before he would ever let him get near Emma. It's not something Stiles thinks he could trust with anyone else. Everyone else would look for some way to save him, just as they had the first time. But with Emma here now, Derek is willing to make the tough call that no one else is. Derek, who has been making tough calls all along. To him it would be just another burden to bear, and what's one more on top of what is already so many?

After a long few seconds of silence, Stiles whispers, "Thank you."

Derek nods once. He releases Stiles' wrist and lies back, tucking his arms behind his head. He closes his eyes. "Now, how does it go?"

Stiles closes his eyes and says, "The first line is _'The bells ring in the night, my love'_."

Derek repeats it.

They only make it through singing the second verse together—the one about the moon—that Stiles falls asleep.

Derek listens to his heartbeat and watches his chest rise and fall beneath the comforter. It seems like he's sleeping more peacefully this time.

Werewolf hearing allows Derek to hear the smallest, very beginnings of Emma's fussing an hour and a half later, when she wakes up ready for a bottle. He slips out of the bed with all the presence of a ghost, then pads over to Emma, quick to snatch her up and take her to the kitchen. He doesn't want Stiles to wake up.

Derek stays with Emma until it's time for a diaper change, walking through the kitchen and showing her all the shiny pots and pans and utensils and keeping her occupied. She's more and more interested in the world with every passing day; it's incredible to watch and Derek cherishes it with every breath.

When he's climbing back under the covers, his phone starts buzzing quietly against the nightstand. A peek at the screen tells him it's half past midnight and the Sheriff is calling him.

"Sheriff," he says upon answering.

"Is there a reason my son isn't home yet so late on a school night?" Jonathan asks. "Please tell me you know where he is."

Derek rushes to reassure him. "He's fine. He's with me at the loft."

The confusion is evident in the Sheriff's voice, when he asks, "Why hasn't he come home then? Is Lydia there again? Did something happen?"

"No. It's just us. He…" Derek glances at the sleeping boy and wonders if he should tell the Sheriff or not. He decides it's probably best if the man knows. "He had a nightmare, sir."

There's silence for a beat or two, strained even over the line. "Damn," the Sheriff mutters. "I was afraid this might happen. That they'd return if...if things started up again. It's been so quiet for a while after all the dead pool stuff, he had been doing okay."

Derek wonders if that's really true. Or if Stiles had just managed to hide it. "I'm sorry, Sheriff."

"No reason for you to apologize, Derek, but thank you. Is he sleeping now?"

"Yes."

"All right. Leave him be then. He needs all the sleep he can get if the nightmares are happening again."

"I can have him wake up in time to get home before school," Derek says.

"No…" Jonathan says. "No, just let him sleep...I'll bring a change of clothes by again. He can leave from there."

"Yes, sir."

"What did I tell you about the 'sir' thing?"

"Force of habit, Sheriff."

"Well, break it. There's no need for that when it's personal stuff. You keep an eye on my son tonight, Derek. He needs someone to look after him."

That's a tall order, but Derek already agreed to it long ago, so he does again. "I will."

"Thank you, Derek," the Sheriff says sincerely.

"Good night, Sheriff."

"Good night."

Derek hangs up and stares at the phone in his hand for a length before looking over at Stiles. The boy is still sound asleep.

Derek slips under the covers and counts Stiles' heartbeats until he dozes off.

 

Dean wakes up in the middle of the night, vision's of his Amazonian daughter dying at his brother's hands still dancing around his head.

"Shit…" he mutters. He should have known a nightmare or two would surface.

He gets out of bed and drags himself to the bathroom. There he splashes some cold water on his face, rubbing a hand across his features wearily.

When he lowers his hand, his heart nearly jumps out of his chest.

" _Jesus_ , Cas," he curses, slamming his hands down on the lip of the sink.

The angel is standing behind him, frowning concernedly at Dean in the mirror.

"You had a nightmare," Castiel states.

"Yeah, Cas. What of it," Dean says angrily. He turns around to face the angel, tapping the door shut all the way so their voices don't reach Sammy.

"Do you wish to talk about it?"

Dean shoots the other man a dark look. "No."

"I could aid you in sleeping more soundly," Castiel says, hand already rising, two fingers poised.

"Don't you even think about it, Cas, back off!" Dean says, ducking the fingers. He winds up facing the angel, back to the door.

"I was only trying to help," Castiel says, wounded.

"Yeah, I know. And you were only trying to help 'cause you're still making up for earlier. Well, cut it out. I'm over it, we're square."

"I do not know how we could possibly be "squared," Dean, when I violated your trust like that."

"It wouldn't be the first time," Dean spits.

 _That_ stings, all the more because it is true.

Dean goes on. "But I've learned to get over it, okay? You can't be all hurt over feelings and expect to survive in this life. We move on. It's just what we do. So I'm over it."

"Okay, Dean," Cas says. It's a surrender and they both know it.

They're silent a moment, neither looking at one another. Dean still carries an air of irritation and spite. Castiel still looks thoughtful and worried.

Suddenly, the angel says, "We could go fishing."

Dean looks at him in disbelief. "What?"

"In your dreams. Fishing. That is your preferred place."

Oh. The dock. Fishing. Right.

"I can guide your dreams," Castiel says, "and make sure your subconscious does not wander outside of your chosen dreamscape."

Dean considers him for a minute. "Yeah?" he finally says.

"Yes," Castiel confirms.

Dean sighs. He'd be letting Castiel in his head by choice. But on the other hand he wouldn't have to risk the bloodied body of his daughter being dredged up again.

"Yeah, okay. Come on," Dean concedes and leads the way back into the bedroom.

Sam is sound asleep, undisturbed. Dean doesn't like that particularly—thinks he's getting too comfortable in this town.

The elder hunter shuffles back under the covers and reclines before pointing a finger at his companion.

"All right, Cas. You wait until I'm asleep on my own, and then do your thing."

"Yes, Dean."

"But that's it. Nothing else. You don't go poking around in there or nothing. And this is the one time. You don't have permission to do this whenever you want."

"I understand."

Dean studies the angel's face, written in lines of determination.

"All right. 'Night, Cas."

"Good night, Dean."

The man closes his eyes with a certain level of focus behind the action. He drifts for a long time, keenly aware of the angel looming over his bed. It's not nearly as disconcerting as it should be.

In spite of their... _everything_ , the fact of the matter is Dean still feels safe with Castiel watching over him.

He falls asleep without noticing, but then he's sitting in a camping chair, feet near the edge of the planks. His tackle box is beside him, his pole in his hand. He hasn't had this dream in a very long time. He can admit that, being back? It's pretty darn nice.

Only…

Castiel isn't there. When the angel had offered, Dean had kind of expected him to be present for the dream-guiding.

"Cas," Dean calls softly.

There's a fluttering sound.

"You don't have to be in the dream for it to work?" Dean asks.

"No."

"Huh."

There's a long pause, while Dean watches the glistening water.

He shrugs. "I don't mind if you are."

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel says.

Then the angel is taking a seat in a chair that matches Dean's own, but in blue.

The two sit on Dean's dock, looking out at the peacefulness of the still water, the empty shoreline, the calm forest. They don't say a word the entire time.

Dean doesn't catch a single fish, but it's still one of the best dreams he's ever had.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back from the dead!!!! ME.
> 
> Hey, if I didn't go through crazy reblogging phases on tumblr, y'all probably would really think I was dead, it's been so long. But I'm not dead! No, I just bought a house. That's right!! BOUGHT A HOUSE LIKE I'M AN ADULT OR SOMETHING OH MY GOD I'M NOT READY FOR THIS OH GOD WHY DID I DO THIS MOMMY HELP. Seriously, most stressful experience of my life, but worth it in the end, I guess?? At least until the first time something breaks and I can't afford repairs. Ah, adulthood. I don't know why I thought I could do this. I'll be completely broke within a year. :/ 
> 
> In other news I got a short story published, so hey, if you like horror go check out Road Kill: Texas Horror by Texas Writers Vol. 2 on Amazon. *finger guns*
> 
> Anyway. Still working on this, I swear. Here's a chapter. Have fun, kids. I love and adore you.
> 
> Edit: Big thanks to jamiefraser0 for catching my stupid author mistake! I had Emma in two places at once. Good thing I don't have a real kid, huh?

Friday afternoon rolls around and Stiles walks into the loft with his phone against his ear. Derek, Sam, Dean, and Castiel all watch him as he comes in slinging his bag onto the floor and carrying on with whoever is on the other end of the line—Lydia, apparently.

" _Yes,_ Lydia, oh my god, I know, all right, I know. Just...I will _ask_ them. And don't act like it's in case of emergency. I know you just want Parrish to be there so you can dance with h—"

There's a shrieking on the other end and Stiles bodily winces and pushes the phone away until it stops.

"No. No, I will not stop teasing you about this. Ever," he says. He grins. "I love you too. Bye, Lyds. I'll kiss Emma for you."

Stiles hangs up and faces the quartet watching him with varying levels of amusement and confusion.

"What was that about?" Sam asks.

"There's a dance," Stiles tells them.

"What does that have to do with asking Parrish something?" Derek wants to know.

"It has to do with you, too, actually," Stiles informs him. "Lydia suggested we ask you and Parrish to casually "chaperone" in case something happens. Like last year."

Derek understands then. "This is _that_ dance. With Peter."

"Actually, no, this is an end of year spring formal," Stiles says. " _That_ dance was the winter formal...We all skipped that dance this year, because well, you know. _Not_ good times.. But this dance should be fine! Hopefully, sans psycho murderers and everything this time around. Can't really blame Lydia for taking some precautions though, can you?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean says. "Back up. What?"

"Uncle Crazy-Pants attacked Lydia at last year's winter formal in order to force me to find Derek for him," Stiles says mildly as he goes to Emma's crib. "Then we all proceeded to gather outside the old Hale house and set him on fire."

Dean's eyebrows pop up and when he looks at Sam, his brother's expression is identical.

Sam says, "And here we thought we were the only ones dealing with that level of unbelievable crap."

Dean chuckles. "We fit right in here in Beacon Hills, don't we, Sammy?"

"I bet we can match you crazy for crazy," Stiles says, grinning.

He turns his attention to the crib. It's empty and Stiles directs a quizzical look at Derek.

"Your dad has her. Wanted to take her to the park." 

"Aw," Stiles coos, then straightens up. "So will you do it? Chaperone the dance?"

Stiles looks at Derek with those big bambi eyes.

Derek sighs. "I will definitely regret this. But yes. I'll do it."

"Awesome!" Stiles crows. "And Parrish will do it, obviously, because he's like the nicest guy on the planet. _Sweet_. We'll have bodyguards so we can be free to let loose and par- _tay!_ " Stiles cheers and promptly busts a move.

"I...I do not understand dancing," Castiel says, watching Stiles' antics with a mildly terrified eye.

"Do you even know how to dance?" Stiles asks.

"No."

"That's what I thought. You can't understand dancing if you don't even know how. C'mon, I'll teach you," Stiles says.

He takes one step in Castiel's direction and is shortly grabbed by the arm and yanked in the opposite direction. He turns his head and sees it's Derek who has grabbed him. Of course.

"Do. Not."

"Aw, Derek, what the hell? I'm a great dancer!"

"No. You're not," Derek says with complete seriousness.

Stiles scoffs. "Please. Sam, Dean, you be the judge. Am I good dancer?"

Dean mutters, "oh, god," but he and Sam obligingly keep their eyes on Stiles. Derek releases him with a heavy sigh and takes two large steps away from the teen. Sam's brow rises when he notices, but quickly realizes it's to get out of flailing distance.

Stiles proceeds to show the Winchesters just what he's really made of.

Dean doesn't even twitch, when he says, "Cas, don't ever let that kid teach you how to dance."

"Wh—!" Stiles exclaims. "I—C'mon, man! I'm awesome! Sam? Back me up, man!"

Sam tries to stifle his laughter, really, he does, but by god, he just can't.

"Oh, screw you, Sam. You, too, Dean."

"I tried to tell you," Derek says calmly, returning to Stiles' side now that it's safe.

"I'm not _that_ bad," Stiles says.

Derek gives him a small, reassuring smile. "No. Not that bad."

"See? There. Not that bad," Stiles says, satisfied. "That's enough to qualify to teach someone."

"No, it's not," Dean says adamantly.

"I still don't _understand…_ " Castiel butts in, brow scrunched. "What is the point? If it is not part of some ceremony, I do not see the point."

"It's...it's about moving to the music. Feeling the beat. Really. That's it. That's all it is," Stiles explains. "Just letting go and getting down with your bad self. And everyone has their own way of dancing, thank you very much. You just gotta move to the groove, man."

"What...groove…?" Cas asks it like Stiles is proposing they each chop off a finger to make friendship bracelets.

Stiles sighs in that beleaguered teenager sort of way and then says, "How about I just show you?"

He pulls out his iPod and shimmies over to Derek's dock. He plugs it in and pulls up a fast-paced song. When Derek glances at the screen it says, _Prelude_ by someone called Attack Attack!

Dean rolls his eyes and scoffs at the choice.

Stiles starts pumping both fists above his head and goes over to Castiel. "Just move. In time with the tempo. That's all it takes. Try it out."

Cas is still sort of looking at Stiles like he's proposing mutilation, but he slowly starts jerking his head in what might evolve into a head-bop given time. A few centuries maybe.

"Loosen up, Cas!" Stiles says, shaking his whole torso as he gyrates his hips and shoulders at the same time.

Cas watches him closely and begins almost moving his hips.

"Oh god, this is painful," Sam says, covering his eyes.

Dean continues to watch, but he's squinting and tilting his head away, like he's trying not to look, but at the same time he just has to look.

 _Prelude_ is a short song apparently. Thankfully when it's over Cas and Stiles stop dancing. Until the next one starts.

It's another upbeat electronic piece and Dean actually stamps his foot on the ground. "God, no—you know what? If you're going to dance, at least get some decent music."

The hunter strides over to the stereo and starts clicking away at Stiles' iPod.

"Hey!" Stiles shouts.

"Shut up," Dean says automatically. "Do you even have anything good on h—aha! Here we go."

Dean jabs at the device one last time and then turns around triumphant. AC/DC's _You Shook Me All Night Long_ comes through the speakers.

"Oh, all right," Stiles says, already moving in time. "You're a classic rock kind of guy. Probably should have guessed that."

"Damn right. I'm surprised you have any, kid."

"I grew up right," Stiles says. Derek is the only one that infers that that means it was Mrs. Stilinski's tastes. If it had been the Sheriff's, he would have just said so.

"Come on, Mr. Macho-Man. Show us how it's done," Stiles says.

Dean is already bobbing his head and tapping his heel in a very manly, bow-legged, rock-and-roll style.

And then the verse starts.

 _She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean_.

Stiles guffaws. "Oh god!"  

Dean is singing—pretending he has a microphone _singing_ —and just plain rocking out. He points at Cas and nods his head in time with the rhythm. Cas' eyes are glued to the hunter and begins to mimic his movements with perhaps a bit more success than with Stiles, if you count his foot keeping time.

When he glances over at him, Stiles finds Sam is getting into the act, even though he hasn't stood from his chair.

And then— _and then_ —when Stiles turns to Derek to share in a laugh, he finds the werewolf bobbing his head and even moving his hips a little.

"Oh holy god," Stiles blurts and Derek immediately stops. "No, no, no, no! Don't stop, come on!"

Stiles grabs Derek's biceps and begins jostling him front to back.

"Stiles," Derek grumbles, refusing to move now that he's been caught.

Dean notices what they're doing and he hooks an arm around Castiel's neck and hauls him over to the other pair, never missing a beat with the lyrics. Stiles grins and loops an arm around Derek's waist, when Dean gets Derek by the neck in the same fashion as Castiel.

Stiles looks over to Sam and holds out his free arm, says, "Sam, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, it's almost the good part!"

"It's all the good part, kid," Dean says jovially.

Sam laughs and rushes over. He and Stiles are linked up just in time for Dean to shout, "Come on now! _Everybody_ rocks out to AC/DC!" and the line to hit:

_Yeah, you! Shook me all night long!_

They all sing; they all dance; they all laugh. In any possible way you can imagine.

There's foot-tapping—Cas seems to be getting the hang of that, Dean goes full-throttle on it and Derek does it in a more reserved manner. There's head-banging—Dean and Stiles could be rockstars and when you factor in Sam's hair, so could he. There's pushing and tugging on the line of interlinked arms and it's amazing. It's _amazing_.

Stiles sees Castiel smiling at one point, a real one with teeth, as he sways with Dean—even sees Derek flash a toothy grin—and thinks the dance lessons have been a roaring success.

The final chords of the song wind down and Stiles is laughing raucously, while Sam chuckles and Dean grins. Derek is smiling, small though it is, and Castiel is resembling a bright-eyed, excited puppy.

A voice comes from behind them.

"Wow. And here I thought Beacon Hills had a new threat. Not a new dance hall."

Everyone breaks apart and turns around. Stiles and Derek look happy to see the visitor that greets them.

"Chris," Derek says by way of greeting.

"Yo, Mr. Argent! Welcome back!"

"Argent?" Dean says, the name pinging.

"And you are?" Chris asks, eyes scanning the unknown trio shrewdly.

"The Winchesters," Dean says, chin raised in challenge.

"Oh," Chris says, eyebrows arched. "You must be Sam and Dean then. And…?"

"And Castiel," Dean says, when Argent's eyes land on the angel.

"Castiel. Right," Chris says, warily eyeing the man. Hunter's instincts are telling him he's not human. "It's nice to meet the Winchesters. Heard a lot about you. I met your father once in El Paso. I was sorry to hear he had passed away. He was a good hunter."

"Thank you, sir," Dean says gruffly. John will probably always be a sore spot for the man. "We were sorry to hear about your losses too."

"Thank you," Chris says, face somber.

Stiles goes weirdly still quite abruptly. Eyes on the floor, posture bowed, it's an odd stance for him and immediately noticeable. Less noticeable is Derek shifting his weight and subtly pressing his shoulder against Stiles'. The teen's head snaps up and he looks at Derek, who is blankly staring ahead. Stiles visibly pulls himself back to the present and leans into Derek's shoulder without looking at him. Both Winchesters notice and find that interesting for several reasons; there's more than one story there.

"Thank you for coming, Chris," Derek says, dropping his arm and directing his attention to the former hunter.

"I doubt I could stay away. Word came down the line to the Calaveras about the Jessop coven. They were a group hunters didn't touch, so long as they continued to use their powers against evil instead of for it. They were too powerful to try to take down without a good reason, but the Calaveras among a few others kept tabs on them. And vice-versa."

"Heard of the Calaveras," Dean says. "Outta Mexico, right? Mainly work south of the border."

"Yes. I've been helping them track my sister, Kate."

"Kate?" Sam balks. "I thought she was...I mean…"

"Dead?" Chris says bluntly. "We all did. But she had actually turned from her wound. She's a werejaguar now."

"And still as much of a bitch as ever," Stiles says. "No offense, Mr. A."

"None taken."

"How's that going?" Derek asks, too casually.

"It's going," Chris says, meeting his eyes.

Derek nods.

Stiles butts in, "So Mr. Argent. Got any leads on our guy?"

"I'm afraid not," the man says. "But I'm ready to start searching for some here."

"You're welcome to team up with us," Dean says.

"That sounds like a good plan," Chris says. Then his eyes travel over to the crib next to Derek's bed and he states, "I feel like there's something you didn't tell me over the phone, Derek."

Derek smiles wryly. "I wanted you to be able to meet her."

"Her?"

"Emma," Derek says softly. "Unfortunately, the Sheriff has her right now. He insisted someone needed to take her out to get some sun once in a while."

"Quality godfather-goddaughter time," Stiles says. Grinning he adds, "Dad loves babies."

Chris smiles a little at that. "I guess I'll just have to stick around until he gets back with her then. You boys mind filling me in on what you have so far?"

Sam says, "Of course not. I'll warn you, it's not much. Mostly theories still."

"It's better than nothing," Chris says and follows Sam over to the table.

"Did you find anything in the reports Parrish pulled?" Stiles asks, following them.

"What reports?" Chris asks.

"Reports on the surrounding area that might be related to our guy."

Sam grimaces. "I'm not sure. There are a lot of strange occurrences of violence in 100 miles in any direction, but I can't be sure."

"What kind of "occurrences of violence"?" Stiles asks.

Sam's eyes cut sharply up to Dean's as he says in a mild tone of voice, "The kind where wives bludgeon their husbands to death with a candlestick for no apparent reason."

Dean returns the look, message received loud and clear. Cas glances between them and carefully doesn't mention the Milton incident.

They still haven't heard from Garth.

Eyes glued to the papers on the table, no one else notices the exchange.

Sam shuffles a pile forward, expression neutral again. "There are these three, they have to do with hearts, but it doesn't seem like the end goal was to salvage the heart. If it was they messed up."

"Bleh," Stiles says when he rifles through and sees the gory images.

"Yeah," Sam agrees.

Chris says, "Hearts?"

"Let me fill you in," Sam says and starts at the beginning for Chris.

 

When the Sheriff returns, he looks almost dopily happy.

"We had so much fun at the park," Jonathan enthuses. "She really, _really_ wants a squirrel, Derek."

"That's not happening," Derek deadpans.

The Sheriff chuckles, passing Emma off to Derek, so he can see her after being apart for so many hours. The officer turns his attention to Chris.

"Chris. Good to see you back in town. Here to help on the case?"

Jonathan extends a hand that Chris shakes amiably and replies, "Yes. Derek called me in on it."

"I imagine it wasn't the only reason," the Sheriff says, raising his eyebrows in Emma's direction.

Chris smiles warmly, not his cold smile they all remember a little too well. "Yes, you're right."

The hunter approaches Derek and looks down at Emma. She looks back up at him with big hazel-green eyes and says, "Buh!"

"Hello to you, too," Chris says.

It doesn't surprise Stiles, Derek, or the Sheriff that Chris is good with children. He had been a great father.

Derek clears his throat awkwardly, drawing Chris' attention up to him. The werewolf is looking away as he says, "Sheriff Stilinski is Emma's godfather, her _comp_ _è_ _re_."

Chris' eyebrows jump. " _Comp_ _è_ _re_. I've heard of that. That's an old term."

Derek nods, looking down at Emma. "A _comp_ _è_ _re_ or a _com_ _è_ _re_ are traditionally someone the parents trust. Someone that they would feel comfortable leaving their child with, if something were to happen to them. There's no one Emma would be safer with than you or the Sheriff. If you'd like to."

"Aw," Stiles blurts, which earns him a glare from Derek. Stiles casually hides behind his dad, to which the Sheriff shakes his head.

"I'd be honored to do it, Derek," Chris says. "Thank you."

Derek nods. "You can see her whenever you like. You don't have to come here because there's something to hunt."

It's a heartfelt invitation and it makes Chris' eyes water just a little to think of having a baby girl in his life again.

"Thank you, Derek," Chris says.

"Would you like to hold her?" Derek asks.

"More than anything," Chris replies.

He takes her and rocks her in his arms, smiles down at her, eyes wet. The Sheriff claps a hand on Stiles' shoulder as they watch them, squeezes and doesn't let go.

The quiet moment is broken by the Sheriff's phone ringing. It draws the attention of the Winchesters back around and everyone watches as he answers it.

"Sheriff here," he says.

Derek and Castiel can hear every line of conversation, so when the Sheriff's face goes serious, they know why.

"I'm on my way," he says and hangs up. Everyone is instantly more alert. He looks at his audience.

"Dad?" Stiles is the one to speak, knowing that look better than anyone.

"A report just came in. Two missing persons. Husband and wife, vanished from their car on the way back into Beacon County."

The collective tension ratchets up.

"Who?" Stiles asks.

"You don't know them," the Sheriff is quick to say. "They live a town over in Willowbend. Garrett and Elizabeth Ingraham. Car was found abandoned on I-5 'bout ten miles out from Willowbend."

"Crashed?" Dean asks.

"Yes."

"Where were they coming from?" Sam asks. He and Stiles are both already on their laptops.

"Sacramento."

"Think they'll turn up with their hearts missing?" Chris asks.

"Or with hoodoo in their trunk?" Dean asks. "Maybe they were witches and the same guy who got Tara got them."

"God, I hope not," Jonathan says.

"You think they were in the Jessop's coven?" Sam asks.

"Not necessarily," Dean says. "Maybe our theory is wrong."

"But why are the bodies gone?" Stiles asks. "If it was like Tara, wouldn't the guy have left them behind?"

"Good question," Sam says.

"Maybe they're not dead yet. Would Lydia have gotten a tingle if they died?" Dean asks.

"Her range doesn't reach that far," Stiles says with certainty, pulling up the info on Garrett and Elizabeth. "Dad, have Parrish send me what he's got."

" _Stiles_."

" _Dad!_ "

So much is exchanged in those two small words and the look father and son give each other.

"Fine," the Sheriff finally relents and punches out a text.

"Forward it to me?" Sam says.

"Naturally," Stiles says.

"Jesus…" the Sheriff mutters.

"Nora Vance's heart was stolen two nights ago, right?" Chris says. "I'm not an expert on witches, but doesn't that seem a little soon to need another one?"

"It is soon," Stiles says. "Maybe he's stocking up. Saw an opportunity and took it. He'll have them for when he needs them."

"Maybe it's not for longevity this time, but something different," Sam says. "Hearts can be used for a lot of things."

"Maybe he wasn't after hearts at all," Dean says. "The people are missing. Gone. Completely. He would've just left the body like he did with Nora if it were as simple as hearts."

"What are we thinking?" Chris asks.

Sam shrugs. "Blood, too many organs to carry...maybe he just needed them whole."

"Minions maybe," Dean says.

"Ooo, mind puppets?" Stiles asks.

"Possibly," Sam says.

"I need to see the car," Derek says to the Sheriff.

"I know." He's looking at this phone. "It's being brought into impound. I'll get you in after hours."

"I can take him," Castiel offers. "We would be in and out very quickly."

"Do it," the Sheriff says.

Derek and Cas exchange a nod and then Stiles is listing off facts about the missing pair.

"Nothing stands out about them," he surmises at the end.

"Just like vic number one," Dean says.

The Sheriff shakes his head. "Derek, Cas, find what you can at the car. I've got to go. Love you, kid."

"Love you, parent," Stiles says without looking up. The printer beeps angrily and the teen says, "Derek. Paper."

Sam lifts a hand. "Please."

Derek rolls his eyes and goes.

Chris, Emma still tucked in his arm, looks at Dean. "Crash site?"

"You know it," Dean says, then to Stiles, "Kid?"

"Sending you the location now," Stiles says.

"We'll take my car," Dean says, grabbing his jacket.

Chris goes to lay Emma down in the crib and the younger hunter takes the opportunity to step close to Castiel and say below the normal hearing level, "Check for our usual perps, all right?"

"Yes, Dean," Cas says.

Dean rejoins Chris and the pair are off.

Cracking open a pack of paper, Derek glances after them.

 

" _This_ is your car?" Chris says, when Dean leads him up to a slick-looking classic car.

Dean pauses, fingers on the door handle. "Yeah. Something wrong with it?"

"I would think a fellow hunter would have something a little more under the radar."

Dean snorts. "Like what? A nondescript black SUV?"

Chris looks at him across the roof. "Yes."

Dean grins. "We're too good at our jobs to need that sort of cover."

"If you say so." Chris takes a moment to size up the Impala. "She's nice, I'll give you that."

"She's the _nicest_ ," Dean corrects. "Remind me to show you the trunk sometime."

"Oh?" Chris opens the door a beat after Dean.

Dean slides into the front seat. "Had this car my whole life, had a lot of time to customize. We've got a sweet hunter supply set-up back there. Looks perfectly normal on top."

"That's the best kind," Chris says, closing the car door.

At the crash site Dean and Chris both prove their salt by analyzing the scene in a matter of seconds.

"They came from the light," Chris says, pointing at the stop light twenty yards back. "Stopped at a red and then started again."

"And when they did they veered off the road and crashed for whatever reason." Dean looks at the splintered tree bowed in half. "They can't have been going very fast. Big vehicle, steep hill though."

Chris nods.

"How do you figure someone walks away from a crash like that?" Dean asks.

Chris' mouth is drawn in a grim line. "They don't."

 

At the impound lot a small flutter is the only indication that anything has occurred in the quiet yard.

Derek seizes up after they land and doesn't move for a long moment.

"Derek?" Cas asks.

"That...is horrible," Derek says and then visibly shakes himself out of the aftershock of flying with an angel.

"So I've been told," Cas says, never minding him. He walks over to the car Stiles had provided the police procedural photos of. "This is it."

Derek follows and surveys the damaged vehicle. It's a Chevy Tahoe and it's about two-thirds the length it used to be. The front end is nearly non-existent it's so smashed up.

"This was a bad crash," Castiel says, stating the very obvious.

"Your point?" Derek asks.

"I cannot imagine they walked away from this."

"But there's no blood," Derek says.

"I noticed. Do you notice anything else unusual?"

"Yes," Derek says without expounding. He pauses, watching the angel. "Are you finding whatever it is Dean told you to look for?"

Cas' head whips toward him. "You heard that."

"I heard that."

Cas looks forward again and hesitates before answering. "No. I'm not finding "our usual perps"."

"I'd ask who that is, but I doubt I'd get an answer."

"You won't. I'm sorry, Derek."

Derek shakes his head. "We all know about having secrets around here." He steps up in front of the angel and levels a look at him. "But if it's the kind of secret that's going to get people killed you and your hunter friends might want to consider sharing."

Castiel returns the serious look. Eventually, he nods. "I will speak to Sam and Dean about it."

That didn't sound like Cas has a lot of confidence in the outcome of that particular conversation going favorably. Derek appreciates that Castiel will try all the same.

 

They regroup at the loft and part ways when everyone shows inconclusive results.

"Add it to the list," Stiles mutters and clacks away at his keyboard.

After it's just the two of them, and Emma, left behind, Derek walks up to side of the table opposite from Stiles and splays his fingers over Stiles' laptop, snapping it shut.

Stiles gets up in arms immediately, believing this to be a repeat of the other night. "Derek, I swear to god, if you think—"

"I overheard Dean say something strange to Castiel."

That brings Stiles up short. Derek knows the best way to get Stiles' attention is always with a new piece of information.

"What? What did he say?"

Derek leans his elbows on the table. "Before he left to go to the crash site, Dean told Cas to "look for their usual perps" at the impound lot."

Stiles raises up in his chair a little, like a prairie dog on high alert. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know. I confronted Cas about it, but he wouldn't tell me. Pretty sure that sort of thing is up to Sam and Dean anyway. He said he would ask them if we could be let in on whatever it is. He didn't seem very confident about their answer being "yes" though."

Stiles nods to himself, absorbing that. He flips his laptop back open and logs back in. He clicks around and finally stops to say, "I've been keeping track of the things the Winchesters and Cas say."

Derek raises one eyebrow at him, very slowly.

"Don't give me that look. You know me well enough by now to know that that is exactly the sort of thing I would do."

Derek concedes the point with a tilt of his head.

Stiles' eyes rove over his notes. He reaches the bottom and types in, _the usual perps?_

"Did he find them?" he asks aloud.

"Find who?"

""The usual perps"?"

"He said no. I can't tell if he was lying or not. Angels are hard to read."

"Aw," Stiles mocks. "Welcome to living like the rest of us."

Derek flicks him gently in the forehead.

Stiles grins and then pauses. "Does Cas have a heartbeat?"

Derek nods, slow. "Yes. An eerily steady one."

"Huh. Guess they keep the body running while they're in it. Makes sense, I guess. Did you know that angels need vessels to walk around on earth like Cas is?"

"Focus."

"Right. So. Cas told me once I should believe him when he says stuff, not because he's an angel, but "because he's telling the truth." Whatever that means. Honestly, he seems like the type who is painfully honest and would have trouble lying unless he really thought about it beforehand. Kind of a no-filter kind of guy."

"Do you think he's thought about it beforehand?"

"I think he's deferring to Dean and Sam on this. I don't think he's thinking about it at all."

"So what have the brothers said?"

"Oh, lots of interesting stuff. Sam lets things slip sometimes while we're researching. He mentioned some kind of crazy bunker and this secret society that made it. I don't know. He gave me a jump drive today, but I haven't opened it yet." Stiles looks at his list again. "Have you noticed how they...they seem to be operating a higher level than us?"

"Was the angel your first clue," Derek says flatly.

Stiles spares him an annoyed glance and continues. "I mean, the angels, yeah. Dean's mentioned that they die a lot, which would imply they are raised from the dead a lot, which implies...they've been places. "After" places."

Their eyes meet for a moment.

"I'm not sure which ones," Stiles says.

Derek lets that drop. "What do you think their usual perps are?"

Stiles considers it for a moment. Finally, he says, "Demons."

"Demons?"

"Demons. If I had to guess. I found passages in my mother's grimoire about them. Deals with demons, black magic, summonings. Things like that. So I know they're real, and well...angels and demons..."

"Two sides of the same coin," Derek says.

"Yeah. I didn't get to ask them about possession earlier because—um. Because Chris came. And then people disappeared. But yeah, I think they deal with demons a lot. You didn't notice anything demon-y on the car?" Stiles asks.

Derek doesn't immediately reply.

"Derek?" Stiles asks, instantly wary.

"I've never come across a demon from hell before," Derek says, "...but the car smelled faintly like sulfur."

Stiles eyes widen considerably. "Mom's book mentioned that. A sulfur smell that demons leave behind."

Their eyes reflect the same thoughts.

"Cas lied to you."

Derek rubs a hand over his face. "Seems that way."

Stiles drops his head onto his fist. "Great."

 

"Demons," Cas says.

The brother's deflate like burst balloons.

"Dammit," Dean says.

"You're sure?" Sam asks.

"I'm sure. There were traces of demonic energy all over the car, not to mention the sulfur smell."

The brothers look up.

"And do you think Derek noticed that?" Dean asks.

"I'm positive he did," Castiel says. "He didn't say it specifically, but he said he noticed something unusual, although he was unwilling to share what exactly."

"Why was he unwilling to share?" Dean asks, suspicious.

"Because I was the same."

Sam's eyebrows go up. "Why wouldn't you share with Derek, Cas?"

Cas' eyes travel over to Dean. "Because he overheard us in the loft."

"Shit," Dean says.

"What? What'd you do?" Sam says.

"I told Cas to check for demons," Dean says.

Cas corrects him. "You said, "the usual perps." Derek asked about it."

"Great," Sam says.

"I lied to Derek," Castiel says. "I told him I didn't find any traces of them."

Sam says, "Even if Derek doesn't know you were lying yet, he will. Stiles will figure that out in a heartbeat when Derek tells him about the sulfur smell."

Dean shakes his head. "We'll deal with it. Let's talk about why we think demons are so close to Beacon Hills. Think it has to do with us?"

"It may well," Cas says.

"Could be a coincidence," Dean says, hopeful.

"Do you think it has anything to do with Milton?" Sam asks.

"Nothing has anything to with Milton," Dean says, exasperated. "It's too far away, Sammy."

"Dean. All of the incidents are completely unexplainable. Just random acts of violence. That could easily be demons possessing people and an increased amount of demon possession is always connected. I'm going to ask Parrish to widen the search radius, see if there's anything 200, 300 miles east."

"That isn't your case, Sam," Dean says, tone creeping awfully close to John Winchester's.

Naturally Sam argues as if it were John. "We don't know that! Milton is due east from Indianapolis. Tara was fleeing from Boston. It follows the path she probably took."

"What does that have to do with demons? You think the witch was tooling around with them? What would that accomplish, Sam?"

"I don't know! That's what we have to find out, Dean!"

"You're wasting time, Sam!"

"You don't know that!"

Dean growls in frustration. "Fine. Fine! Do whatever you want! I'm going out."

Dean slams out of the door with all the ire of a kicked beehive.

It's heavy in the silence that follows before Castiel says, "You need to tell Stiles."

Sam's head turns.

"About the demons. About Miton. He can help you. He's very good at this, Sam."

"I know that, Cas. But I'm not telling him anything until I'm sure. One way or another. I'll see if Garth has anyone in the area, who can hunt down a couple of demons."

"All right," Castiel says. He gazes at the door for a long moment. "Do you think—"

"I wouldn't," Sam says. "He really got worked up that time. Let him cool off."

"All right," Cas says and takes a seat on the edge of one of the beds, while Sam pulls out his cellphone and dials Parrish.

When he tries to call Garth after, no one picks up.

 

Dean finds himself heading in the direction of the loft without meaning to. He sighs, but resigns himself to returning there to check on Emma. That's what his subconscious wants him to do and who is he to argue?

Derek is surprised to see him, but lets him in, smelling the worry coming off of the hunter that belies his angry expression.

Stiles left only twenty minutes ago with a frankly worrying amount of muttering and a look in his eye that had Derek wondering if the teen would be getting any sleep tonight. Derek has a brief moment of thinking that Dean might be here because of his and Castiel's exchange earlier. That is quickly dispelled when Dean's eyes land on Emma's crib.

"Something happen?" Derek asks, padding behind Dean as he heads for the crib.

He shakes his head. "Just...Sam. We don't always see eye-to-eye."

Dean reaches in and wiggles a finger against Emma's little hand. She gurgles and grips it with her tiny fingers.

Derek nods in understanding. "Siblings sometimes don't."

The hunter looks over his shoulder at the werewolf.

A haunted look sits well in Derek's eyes, like it's been there a long time. Dean imagines it has.

"I bet sisters are worse," Dean says, an attempt at lightness in his voice.

Derek's mouth crooks on one side, remembering. "Yeah. They are."

Dean drinks in the sight of Emma, safe and sound and whole for another moment longer. Then he retracts his hand and turns to look at Derek.

Dean isn't sure why he says, "Our mother died in a house fire," but he does.

Derek is duly surprised by the words. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Dean says. "I was only four, it was a long time ago."

"But you remember," Derek says.

"Yeah. I remember. I wish I could say it was just a normal tragedy, a regular electrical malfunction or something. But, nah. It was intentional."

"I know the feeling," Derek says.

"Yeah," Dean mutters.

Derek waits a moment before he asks, "Was it demons?"

Dean realizes it was probably pretty stupid of him to come here right after Cas told him what happened with Derek. And it seems Sam was right: Stiles figured it out as soon as Derek told him.

The hunter sighs. No point in dodging now. "Yeah. It was demons."

"Pretty regular thing for you?"

"Yeah."

"And they're showing up near Beacon Hills now?"

"Looks like."

"Anything to do with us?" Derek asks.

"Hell if I know. You'll have to ask the brainy ones," Dean says.

Derek nods, accepting this as easily as he does everything else.

"Been hunting demons my whole life. Shoulda known they'd catch up sooner rather than later."

"Think they'll be a problem?"

"Depends on why they're here."

Another nod. "Any particular reason you didn't want us to know about them?"

Dean sighs through his nose. "Emma's the focus. That's what you should be worrying about. Leave the demons to us."

Derek gives one final nod, then walks to the kitchen and retrieves two beers out of the fridge, popping the bottle caps off with supernatural strength and passing one to Dean.

Dean takes it with some mild surprise, but some not-so-mild gratefulness.

They sit on the couch and tell stories about the dead. Dean tells Derek about the time-travelling, about how he got to meet her when she was young and full of spirit, that he had no idea she came from a hunting family before then. Derek tells Dean about his Alphas, his mother and his sister, about how similar they were, about how different they were, about how his mother never blamed him even after death, about how he regrets never telling Laura the truth.

Dean talks about the car crash that took his father. Derek talks about killing his own uncle.

It's well past midnight when Dean finally leaves. Both of them know they'll never speak of this again.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you all thought I was dead the LAST time I didn't post for a while. HA, well, I have I outdone myself this time! 
> 
> It's been like 2/3 of a year since this updated and boy, has it been an up-and-down one. Trip to Disney World (AWESOME), job drove me to the brink of madness so I quit and got a new one (burn in hell, old job), dead possum in my crawlspace and probably a ghost in my house (kind of hoped it was the possum, but it's DEFINITELY NOT, it's okay we're cool now), my first nephew was born (!!!!!PRECIOUS BABY!!!!!), Mom had to have surgery so she didn't die (not cool, but good work modern science), cats have allergies in the spring at my house apparently (ohmygod my poor babies and the things they've been through), I'm writing like a real book or something (cool I guess???), and I'm, y'know, just generally living my life and whatever. Enough about that though!!
> 
> I haven't abandoned this story! Shocker, I know. I'm the kind of introvert who drops off the face of the planet for a month at a time to the point that even her real-life friends think she's dead, haha. I am the worst... 
> 
> But here! Have a chapter where some stuff happens! Yay! 
> 
> (Seriously though, thank you to everyone who has ever commented on my stories and who continues to come back even when it's been, like, an eon. I know I don't respond for forever, but believe me, I read and cherish every single comment as they come in. Y'all are the best.)

"Hol—ly. Shit," Dean blurts when he walks in.

"Wow," Sam adds.

Stiles' head pops up. "Huh? Oh. Hey, guys."

Stiles' room is—is—

 _Overrun_ , seems to be the appropriate term. Strings, four different colors of them run along nearly every available space of every wall. A clear board has been scribbled over in marker, peppered with papers and photographs. Books litter every nook of the bedroom, spanning the floor, the desk, the bed, some of them flipped open, most of them heavily marked by post-its sticking haphazardly out the sides.

Stiles has not a book, but a packet of papers about as thick as his arm in his lap, a highlighter in hand, the cap stuffed in one corner of his mouth. The printer quietly spits out even more pages of text.

"This is...this is…" Sam tries.

"Frightening," Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam agrees heartily.

"Yeah," Stiles says distractedly; his eyes are already back on the passage in front of him.

Castiel frowns heavily as his eyes scan the room. "I find it impressive," he says, likely having already read every line of text in the small space.

"That too," Sam says, eyes wide. He's never seen something like this, never even _dreamed_ of something like this. "What _is_ all this?"

"Murder board," Stiles replies simply.

The hunters stare. "Yeah," Dean says. "You notice your _board_ is eating your whole room?"

"Lots of murder," is Stiles' reasoning.

"It's like CSI on steroids," Dean remarks.

"Thanks," Stiles replies.

Dean raises a brow.

"Is this all to do with the Jessop covens' murders?" Sam inquires, looking around.

"Yup."

"Geez," Sam mutters. This case is a verifiable mess. Except the free-standing board. That part looks more organized. "What goes here?" Sam taps on the see-through plastic.

"The pieces I'm currently playing with."

"Ah."

"When did you do all this, kid?" Dean wonders.

"Throughout the week. Added all the amulet stuff last night."

"It must have taken you all night," Sam says, eyeing the sizeable cluster of potential artifacts and spellwork.

"Pretty much, yeah," Stiles says.

The brothers look at him, disapprovingly.

"Stiles," Dean says, "when was the last time you slept?"

Stiles' head swivels up again. "Um. Thursday?"

"It's Saturday," Dean points out bluntly.

"Okay," Stiles says and looks back at his papers.

Dean rolls his eyes, while Sam winces. "You know what?" the older brother says. "I'm gonna let Derek deal with that."

"Okay," Stiles says again, running the highlighter over something. It's eerily reminiscent of Kevin in full-on prophet mode.

Sam shakes his head. "I shouldn't have given you that jump drive."

"What jump drive?" Dean asks.

"I gave Stiles what we had scanned from the bunker's library."

"The bunker," Stiles mutters. "I want to see the bunker. Must see bunker, must see library…"

Sam and Dean stare for a long moment.

"Definitely a mistake," Dean says.

"Yep," Sam says.

"What do the string colors mean?" Cas asks. It's the one thing he couldn't read at a glance.

"Oh, uh, status." Stiles looks up to give them the rundown: green means solved, yellow means "to be determined," red means unsolved, and blue is just pretty.”

"That's a lot of red," Dean comments after.

"Why does everyone always feel the need to point that out?" Stiles grumbles.

"Why, though?" Dean wants to know. "I mean, we know why all the Jessops died."

"No, we don't," Stiles says. "We just think we do."

Dean stares at the kid. The hunter is seriously beginning to wonder about Stiles; no seventeen year-old should be this good at crime-solving. Even he wasn’t at this level yet at seventeen.

"Why are we up here?" Sam asks suddenly, observing his and his brother's old mug shots from all that business with Victor Henriksen and a classical painting of an angel that Sam assumes is meant to represent Castiel. They're all tied together with blue lines.

"Because you're players on the board," Stiles says, highlighter moving again.

No one is quite sure how to take that.

"This Emma then?" Dean queries, noticing a picture of a random baby in a crocheted witches hat that connects with the trio as well as the jumble of Jessop victims. Smart of him not to put up a real picture of her. Taking photos of the child that might wind up in a cloud somewhere on the internet had been banned until her mother's killer is taken care of, but Dean had seen a polaroid camera in the loft and he assumes there are few physical pictures of Emma to be had somewhere.

"Yep."

Dean continues to follow lines until he gets to a gruesome photograph of a woman with a gaping, bloody hole in her chest.

"Sonuva—" he curses, not prepared for it among the regular photos. "Christ, kid. Where'd you get that picture?"

Stiles glances at the details on Nora Vance and says offhandedly, "My dad's the Sheriff, remember?"

"And he just gave you that?" Dean asks.

"I wouldn't say "gave"," Stiles says.

The Winchesters grimace.

Cas, meanwhile, has noticed something on the opposite wall. "You have thirty-one theories as to what our culprit could be using to store power."

"So far. I haven't even gone through everything yet. That may not even be all there is. I'm working on narrowing down what I have so far and looking through the rest of this stuff. It would help if I had a motivation, but the guy hasn't walked up and villain-monologued about it yet, so no dice."

Dean thinks he might be sick. "Christ…" he mutters.

"I'll help," Sam says determinedly.

"This stack is the beginning of "still needs to be gone through"." Stiles indicates a pile of books and papers to his right. There are three more stacks continuing past it, all about as high as Sam's mid-calf.

Sam swallows.

"Yeah, good luck with that, Sammy," Dean says, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Lydia has some too," Stiles says, nose only an inch away from the page before he pulls back again. "Articles I sent to her. Parrish is working with police resources to try and track down anything about our "size eleven footprint." Scott is asking Deaton if he has any ideas based on amulets and artifacts, Kira is asking her mom, and Liam, Mason, and Malia aren't awake yet, but when they are, they will be compiling information on all missing persons in Beacon County in the past week."

Dean snorts.

"Kira's mom, you said?" Sam says, finding a spot on Stiles' bed to sit without disturbing anything. He's taken a thin packet of papers from the top of the first stack, an entry he recognizes as being something from the Men of Letters' section on wicca, and acquired a green highlighter from the pencil cup on the desk.

"Yeah…" Stiles' highlighter traces something again. "She's like 900 years old. She's seen some shit."

Dean and Sam both look at Stiles' incredulously; Cas doesn't bat a lash.

"Kitsune," Stiles summarizes.

"Right," Dean says. "Okay, so me and Cas will probably hook up with Chris Argent today and run around some more, widen the circle, see if we can find anything suspicious. See if Derek wants to come too and lend us his sniffer."

"Who's watching the baby?" Stiles asks.

"You are," Derek says, appearing in the door, Emma in his arm.

Stiles' blinks several times in rapid succession. "Derek. You're here. Why are you here? Actually, why is everybody here? Shouldn't you be at the loft?"

Derek frowns. "Your dad mentioned to me that you had your string out last night."

"Oh."

"Derek explained about your tendency toward…" Sam pauses, "this," he settles on. "So we figured we'd all come here. Be where the action is."

"Ah. Well, give me the pumpkin, then," Stiles says, making grabby hands in Derek's direction.

Derek glares down at him, not budging. "You didn't sleep last night," he says darkly.

Stiles freezes. "Heard that, huh?"

Derek continues to glare.

"Yup," Dean says, scooping Emma up. "We're out of here. See you downstairs."

Castiel looks confused, not catching on to what's happening, so Dean hooks his hand into an elbow and drags the angel out of the room. Sam takes his papers and highlighter with him, closing the door when they're all gone.

"Don't give me that look," Stiles tells Derek—without looking at the werewolf's face.

Derek steps further into the room, eyes surveying the damage Stiles did to it last night.

"You need to sleep, Stiles."

"You're a broken record, Derek."

Derek glares at him.

Stiles sighs and finally looks at him. "Look. I'll take a nap later. How about that? Hm?"

"You sure about that? Or am I going to have to make you?"

He gets an eye roll in response. "I am not _that_ much of a child. I can put myself to bed, thanks. I'll take a nap when I run out of steam, okay? I'm just really on a roll right now."

"Okay," Derek says, though he doesn't seem to believe it. He changes subject anyway. "I've got Emma's bassinet set up downstairs in the kitchen."

"Okay," Stiles says, "I'll move operations down there then. Want to grab some stuff?"

Before Stiles can clamber to his feet, Derek glances toward the door and pushes it almost to closed. Stiles stops and looks up at him curiously.

Derek says, "Dean came by the loft last night. He knows we know about the demons."

Stiles straightens up a little. "And?"

"And he said they didn't know why they're here and to leave it to them. That we should focus on Emma."

Stiles glances at two stacks of papers that stand separate from the rest. "They're right. Guess I'll leave those alone for now."

Derek raises one eyebrow. "Are you sure you can?"

" _Yes_ ," Stiles says emphatically. "I can control myself, Derek."

Derek looks at him, glances at the murder board, and then looks at him again.

"Shut up and grab some papers," Stiles says.

Derek kindly does both.

 

Sam and Stiles set up at the kitchen table for their research binge, Emma nestled in her bassinet right beside Stiles.

"Chris'll be here in just a minute," Dean says, pocketing his phone. "Derek, you want to run with us today?" Dean asks.

The werewolf meets his eyes. "Yes. I thought we should look at the tunnels today."

Stiles head comes up. "You haven't looked in the tunnels yet?"

Derek levels a cold look at him.

"I mean—yeah. Check them today, that's cool. No reason you were avoiding those until now."

The trio watches the pair's exchange curiously.

"Care to fill us in?" Dean asks.

Derek says, "The tunnels run underneath my family's property. Kate Argent appropriated them for a time."

"Right," Dean says, not daring to guess what a psycho like Kate might have done down there. "You and me will hit up the tunnels then. Cas and Chris can drive around."

"Fine," Derek says.

"It's such an obvious bad-guy hideout anyway," Stiles says, running a highlighter over a printout. "I mean, surely he's not stupid enough to hide there. I'm sure you won't find anything."

Dean looks at him. "So we shouldn't even waste our time then?"

Stiles' highlighter stops. "I mean...no?"

Derek shakes his head. "We're going. Even if we don't find anything."

Dean shrugs. "We haven't found anything else yet. May as well."

Stiles shrugs, shoulders up to his ears. "Who knows? Maybe you'll find some demons instead."

The Winchesters both turn their heads toward him. Castiel glances between them.

Sam grimaces, apologetic on all their behalves. "Yeah...about that..."

"Not cool," Stiles says. "I get why you did it, but not cool."

"Sorry," Sam says.

"There's no reason to get antsy about a couple of demons the next town over," Dean says. "Just leave it alone." He looks at his brother when he says this.

Sam gives him the classic bitch-face.

Beside him the teen clamors suddenly. Sam actually jolts when he rattles the table. "Oh, yeah! You guys fight demons! Do you know about possession?"

Three pairs of eyes land on him.

"Do we know about possession?" Sam repeats slowly, eyebrows raised.

Dean scoffs. "Kid, we're practically the experts."

"Really?" Stiles perks up.

"Yeah. Why? What'd you wanna know?" Dean asks, suspicious.

"Is there a way to stop it from happening?"

Dean and Sam glance at each other.

It's Dean that answers, "Yeah. Easy. Just get one of these." He tugs down his collar and shows Stiles the tattoo.

The teen clatters out of his chair and gapes at the marking. "A tattoo? What is it?" he asks, touching Dean's chest.

"Hey, hands off," Dean says, swatting him away. "It's just an anti-possession symbol. Keeps the demons out. Simple as that."

"All demons?" Stiles wants to know. "What about spirit ones, entities not born in Hell?"

Dean pauses, looking at Sam before looking back at Stiles. "What are you getting at, kid?"

"Stiles," Derek says, suddenly right behind the teen. He pulls Stiles back by the arm, away from Dean, then glares at the hunter.

Stiles has that haunted look in his eye again, as he stares up at Derek, the one they've seen off and on since they got here.

"Derek," he pleads quietly. "If...if I can…"

The werewolf turns to him. "Look it up yourself," he says lowly.

Stiles glances at Dean's tattoo again, then comes back to himself, the bright, overeager young man, ready to attack a keyboard at a moment's notice, that they've become accustomed to standing there again.

Derek turns one more glare on the two men, then joins Stiles at the table.

Dean leans back against the counter and exchanges a look with Sam, then Cas. Castiel's gaze lands on Stiles.

Stiles is clacking away, muttering to himself.

One of Derek's eyebrows goes up as he recalls something. "Aren't you afraid of needles?" he asks Stiles.

Stiles glances up from his laptop, pauses. "Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Still?"

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah?"

"After all that's happened to you?"

Stiles only shrugs again.

Derek sighs.

"You can put it on an amulet instead," Sam helpfully provides.

"Really?" Stiles asks.

"Yeah. Just have to wear it for it to work," Sam says.

"Sweet," Stiles says and begins a search in a new window.

Derek sighs—internally this time. At least he's not researching alternative methods of tattooing. When the werewolf leans back in the chair to rest for a moment before they leave, his eyes catch on Dean.

The hunter is watching Stiles, a displeased twist to his mouth. He notices Derek looking at him and meets the glare head-on with one of his own. The hunter looks away first, but only because his angel leans in to speak to him.

Derek doesn't like that, not one bit.

 

Dean is getting real suspicious about the kid. They've all hinted at things, clammed up real quick about stuff, and just generally pinged his hunting instincts when it comes to Stiles.

From the little tidbit he just gleaned he's thinking it has to do with the kid being _possessed_ —but not by a typical black-eyes, Dean is thinking. If he puts that together with the fact that Stiles acted all guilty about the Argents that one time added to the haunted look he gets from time to time, well…

It's not hard to infer somebody, likely an Argent, died at Stiles' possessed hands.

Dean can't remember all the details, but he thinks that the young daughter, Allison, was the one most recently deceased. Impaled by a sword if he recalls.

Huh. That doesn't really add up.

Maybe _Allison_ was the one possessed and Stiles was the one who had to put her down. With a sword.

Still not quite adding up.

Cas' words in his ear as he leaned in make him wonder though.

_"Stiles bears guilt over something, but I cannot see for what crime."_

That sounds to Dean more like Stiles was the possessed one. He'll just have to find out.

 

Chris shows up not five minutes later and they split up. Chris takes the angel in his SUV while Dean and Derek speed off in the Impala.

Derek takes Dean into the tunnels through what, by all means, looks like a simple drainage pipe.

It's immediately clear that it's not when they step into the cavernous hallway beneath the forest floor. It's a maze, but one that Derek knows well. He leads the way while Dean follows without argument.

The hunter, however, decides to do a little investigating while they search.

"So. You and Chris seem to have a pretty good relationship for a werewolf and a werewolf hunter. Especially considering...everything."

Derek glances over at him before sniffing in the direction of a corridor he chooses not to take them down. Dean shines his flashlight down it, just to see what's down there. More wet concrete and rusted pipes, that's what.

"A lot happened in Beacon Hills in the last year," Derek tells him. "We were able to put the past aside when faced with what was happening in the present."

"Bet it doesn't hurt that he's tracking down Kate for you," Dean jokes.

Derek doesn't crack a smile, but that's not so unusual. "No, it doesn't hurt. But he's not looking for her for me. It's for his own peace of mind."

"Come on, man, it's at least a little bit for you. Justice for you and your family and all."

Derek frowns. "I guess. I think Chris is more concerned with putting down a crazed killer. The fact that she's his sister and he feels responsible for her is probably pretty compelling too."

"Fair enough. You wouldn't have asked him to be Emma's godparent if you and he didn't have some sort of friendly relationship though. I mean, the other person you picked is the Sheriff and he—"

"—Arrested me twice," Derek interrupts, stopping to give him a meaningful look.  

Dean stops walking too and blinks several times.

"I don't exactly have the most normal relationships with people," Derek says.

Dean's really not one to talk. "Yeah, well. Same." He starts walking again, when Derek does.

"They're good choices to take care of Emma," the werewolf says.

"What?" Dean says less than intelligently.

"They'll take good care of Emma, if it comes to that. That's why you're asking about them, isn't it? Because she may wind up with one of them." Derek's nose is high in the air and he turns them down the right hand path before lowering it.

"Uh. Yeah." Dean easily uses that conclusion to his advantage. "Yeah, of course. Just trying to get a feel for who we're leaving her with. You, Stilinski, Argent—But what about Stilinski Jr.? What about Stiles?"

Derek's shoulders tense, but he keeps moving. "What _about_ Stiles?"

"Well, he's the Sheriff's kid. He's part of the pack. He's the only witch you know. Seems like he's going to be around a lot."

"And?"

Dean shrugs. "Seems like you're putting a lot of trust in him too."

Derek stops dead and rounds on Dean. His eyebrows are pinched tight, heavy over his glare. "What are you getting at?"

Dean meets his gaze. "Are you sure you can trust him?"

Derek scowls, affronted. "Stiles Stilinski was saving my life even when he hated me. Which is more than I can say for anyone else I've ever known. So, yes. I'm sure."

"Okay." Dean nods. "You're not worried about all the witchy stuff though? Pretty easy to go dark side with all that newfound power."

Derek shakes his head. "Stiles knows about anchors. He'll find one and he'll be fine."

"Anchors, huh?"

Derek nods. "Same as with werewolves. Our type of werewolves, not the cursed kind you deal with."

"Right. Witches aren't werewolves though. They lose control, they don't just get a nasty case of hangnail. They lose control and people start losing their heads. Literally, believe me."

"Stiles can handle it." Derek begins walking away. It's clear he's through with this conversation.

But Dean has one more question.

"Stiles ever kill anyone?"

Derek stops, looks over his shoulder at Dean. In the dimness of the tunnels his face is broken into sharp jagged pieces by the flashlight's faint beam. He looks like a monster looming out of the shadows, a patchwork of nightmares.

Dean knows all about monsters and nightmares.

Derek says, "No."

Dean nods. "Okay then."

The hunter starts walking, not a care in the world. He got what he wanted.

For now.

 

Chris is not surprised that the day spent with the angel is awkward. Everything about Castiel makes him uneasy. He’d rather be stuck with him than not though. Easier to keep an eye on him this way. Sam and Dean he isn't too worried about as their reputations precede them. But Castiel is a wild card.

The angel stares out the window, silent as a statue. Chris gets the sense that he's _feeling_ more than _seeing_ , so the hunter keeps his eyes peeled for anything that stands out on the physical plane.

Finally, the angel speaks. "There."

Chris looks to see where he's pointing. His stomach drops.

It's Eichen House.

"What is this place?" Castiel asks.

Chris has to breathe deeply and swallow the lump in his throat before he speaks. "An insane asylum.”

Cas glances at him, a quick look that Chris can’t read. He stares out at the premises a moment longer. “And what was it before?”

Chris’ mouth thins into a grim line. “An internment camp called Oak Creek. But you won't find any record of it."

The angel's eyes never leave the front gate. "There was a massacre."

"Yes."

"And…" Castiel's eyes widen and he turns to look at Chris.

"Yeah," Chris says.

The angel looks back out the window. He is quiet a moment before he says, "Your daughter is in Heaven."

Chris swallows thickly looks out the driver's side window.

"Your wife is not."

The hunter's head snaps back around.

Castiel looks at him evenly. "I am sorry. For your losses. And for the truth of their fates. There is nothing I can do to change it. They went where they were meant to go."

Chris doesn't say anything for a long moment, then he nods.  "How bad is Hell?"

"Bad."

Chris meets Castiel's eyes.

"I have been there myself," Castiel informs him.

Chris raises an eyebrow.

“My history with the Winchesters is a long one. But it begins with me journeying into Hell to raise Dean out of it.”

Chris instantly grows wary. “Dean was in Hell?”

“Yes. He did it to save his brother." There’s a small moment of silence and then Cas looks to the hunter. “As I said: a long history. One that I’m afraid we do not have enough time for at this moment.”

Chris sighs, but lets it be. He nods out the window toward the gate. "Do we need to take a closer look?"

Castiel is thoughtful, then says, "No. The history of it caught my attention, but it unfortunately has nothing for us."

"What do you mean by "caught your attention"?"

Castiel looks at him evenly. "I mean it is impossible to ignore a place that screams the way this one does. As is any site of great tragedy."

Chris harrumphs. "You haven't been to the local hospital yet, have you?"

"No. Should I have?"

"No." Chris pulls away from Eichen. "And I suggest you don't."

 

Emma fusses for a bottle and a diaper change early on and then naps for a bit. But when she wakes up crying again, it's not a hungry or wet cry.

Stiles frowns thoughtfully. "She's probably tired of being in that basket. I'm going to walk her around the house for a bit."

"Okay," Sam says, scrawling something on a post-it before sticking it on a packet of papers.

Stiles bounces Emma in his arms, taking her through the living room and letting her touch new objects. A constant stream of babble pours out of his lips.

"That's a lampshade," he tells her as she paws at it. "Totally fun to put on your head, but maybe wait until you can hold your head up for more than a few seconds, huh? Yeah, that's probably for the best.

"And this? Ooo! This is an afghan." Stiles lifts the blanket from the back of the couch within reach of Emma's grasping fingers. "Soft, isn't it? And warm and cuddly...just like you!"

Stiles' enthusiasm has Emma looking away from the afghan and back up at Stiles' face. She peers at him curiously, hypnotized by Stiles' smile and voice.

Stiles laughs a little, charmed by it. "You are just so precious, you don't even know…" he tells her softly.

Then he finds himself quiet, just looking at her, drinking her in, the special little girl who fell into their lives without warning. Stiles hasn't been depressed about his break-up with Malia not once, since Emma showed up. He's been too busy caring about her instead. Well, and the fine detail that he's a witch and his mom was a witch and—

A strange crackling sound pulls Stiles' attention to the window.

At first nothing happens. But then one of the wards on the pane illuminates; someone with magical energy has entered the perimeter of the house.

"Sam!" Stiles calls from the living room, tone urgent.

The hunter is through the doorway, gun at the ready, faster than the flip of a switch.

"Stiles," he says quietly as he moves toward the teen.

Stiles has Emma clutched to his chest and he's staring at the window with a ferocity the likes of which you would see in a wild animal. Emma fusses softly, upset by the disturbance.

"What happened?" Sam asks as he moves in between them and the window, gun pointed at the glass.

"The ward on the window, it lit up."

Sam's head snaps around. "Lit up? You mean it activated?"

Stiles nods, eyes still pinned to the sigil. "He was here."

"Can you sense anything else?"

"No," Stiles replies, head shaking. "I think he's gone. It should have zapped the crap out of him, so..."

"Right. I'll check outside. Stay here," Sam commands.

For once Stiles does exactly as he's told. The younger Winchester trots out onto the porch, gun at his side to conceal it. He surveys the area closely, finding no signs of a lingering trespasser.

He shuts the door behind him, says, "Looks like he flew the coop."

"He was here, Sam," Stiles says. "He knows where she is."

"Yeah…" Sam admits. "Seems like it."

Stiles' nostrils flare, a sign of suppressed wrath, even as he bounces Emma gently.

"Hey," Sam says gently, putting a hand on Stiles' shoulder, "we're not going to let anything happen to her."

"I know, I know, just—" Stiles growls in frustration. "I hate that he knows exactly who we are and we still don't have a damn clue about him past his _sneaker size_."

Sam shakes his head. "We just found out he's susceptible to your wards. That's more than we knew yesterday."

"Yeah. But at what cost?" Stiles asks grimly.

"Don't think like that, Stiles," Sam scolds.

The teen exhales a shaky breath, then nods once, steeling himself. "You're right. That sonuvabitch is going down no matter what he's got over us."

Half of Sam's mouth pulls up in a grin. "There you go. Why don't you go put Emma down in the bassinet? She seems ready for a nap now."

Stiles nods, glancing at the baby's drooping eyelids. "Yeah. That sounds good."

Stiles lays the baby down on the soft bedding, bops her once on the nose when she looks at him groggily, then stands back and sighs.

"Hey," Sam calls out softly, "she's all right. We're safe here. Your wards worked. He can't get inside the house."

"I know…" Stiles says quietly. After a pause he admits, "You know, a year and a half ago I didn't think I'd be dealing with this."

"A kid?" Sam asks.

Stiles shakes his head slowly. "The supernatural. Kids...kids are easy. Kids like me and I like them. And I'm...really good at taking care of people. Ever since… When it was just me and Dad...I learned. I just figured it out, you know...learned to take the whiskey bottle away from him until he could do it himself. Just like with raising a kid, do it for them until they can do it themselves. I figured all of that out by the time I was ten...I figured out the supernatural stuff, too, when it came raining down on us without warning. I did the research and we got the bestiary and we...we lost some, but we figured it out. But you know what I never figured out about this whole supernatural lifestyle thing?"

"What?" Sam asks gently.

"The fear," Stiles says bitterly. "That's the one damn thing I've never been able to get a handle on. I...I always manage to—to do what needs to be done and it's easy then, when the adrenaline is pumping and it's all happening all at once, but when it's not, when it's just _silent,_ when you're just _waiting_ —it's _unbearable_...and it eats away at me."

"The quiet moments are the hardest ones," Sam agrees.

"How do you deal with them?" Stiles asks.

Sam answers, "By knowing _what_ it is I'm afraid of. So. What exactly is it you're afraid of?"

Stiles looks at Sam for a long, drawn-out space of time. "I've never thought about it."

Sam nods. "Most people never take the time to identify it. They get consumed by the feeling of fear and can't rationalize _why_ they are so afraid."

Stiles looks back at Emma.

"Losing them," he says after a while. "Losing _everyone_... That's what I'm afraid of."

"Then that's what you have to come to terms with. That you could lose them."

Stiles' eyes are shining.

"It's what you have to do, if you want your fear to not rule you," Sam continues, the experience of the same struggle weighing heavy on him.

Stiles' mouth crumples. "I'm not so great at that. I've had panic attacks ever since...ever since the first time I lost someone. Huh. Guess it makes sense that that's what scares me the most."

Sam gets up, chair clattering behind him, and wraps Stiles up in the kind of hug that brothers are best at giving.

"That doesn't mean you're weak. It just means you haven't really tried. The fear keeps winning because you keep letting it."

"You think I'm _letting_ it happen, Sam?" Stiles pulls back to look at him.

Sam remains calm. He grips Stiles' shoulders firmly and looks him in the eye. "No. The panic attacks are beyond your control. But the way you look at your fear isn't. You have to think of it as something that lives with you...not as something that you live with. The fear and the panic attacks and the, the anxiety, anything else—it's a part of you, but it doesn't define you."

Stiles takes a deep breath. "You're right," he says and it's like something finally unclenches in his chest. "It's not who I am."

Sam shakes his head, smiling. "It's not. You're so much more than that. Focus on that."

Stiles smiles back. "Thanks, Sam. You're like...the big brother I never had or something."

"We all need a big brother sometimes," Sam says. "Believe me, you don't even want to know where I'd be without mine."

Stiles chuckles. "Dean seems like the type to not let you quit."

"That's for sure," Sam huffs.

"Well...if you ever feel the need to complain about him...or to exercise your big brotherly urges again...consider me that annoying little brother you never had."

Sam laughs genuinely. "Annoying little brother, huh? The kind big brothers torture relentlessly?" he asks with a raised brow.

Stiles does not like the look on Sam's face. "Uh. No...no, definitely not that kind…"

"You sure about that?" Sam says, creeping closer.

"Oh, sh—no. No!" Stiles half-shouts as he darts off into the living room out of Sam's long reach.

He doesn't get very far before Sam catches him around the middle. Then he's being tossed onto the couch and— _tickled mercilessly_.

Stiles squeals, half in delight and half in terror, trying to push Sam's hands away. "No, stop it!"

"Come on, Stiles. Brotherly right of passage! You gotta get tickled to death!"

The sound of the front door opening causes a cessation in their battle. They both look up, Stiles upside down, to see Derek and Dean appear.

"Oh. Uh. Hey, guys," Stiles says.

Derek's face darkens, like storm clouds gathering. Dean promptly bursts into laughter.

"Not interested in a seventeen year-old, huh, Sammy?"

"No—Dean—it—it's not what it looks like!" Sam protests.

"Oh, yeah?" Dean says.

"It was—I was tickling him!"

"'Tickling'," Dean intones with innuendo. "Right."

Derek shoots one last murderous look at the two of them before growling, "Where's Emma?"

"Th-the kitchen…" Stiles stammers, blushing beet red at Dean's suggestions.

Derek tromps off to the kitchen, presumably to check on his daughter.

"Oh my god," Stiles groans, covering his face with his hands, completely mortified.

"Stiles, I'm so sorry," Sam says, _finally_ getting off of him.

Dean chuckles again. "Man, I'm surprised he didn't tear you to pieces right then and there, Sammy."

"I know. He looked like he wanted to."

"No, it's just me he wanted to rip apart," Stiles says on a sigh.

The brothers both look at him strangely.

"What?" Stiles asks.

"Uh, Stiles, I'm pretty sure you're the _last_ person Derek would maim," Sam says. "Besides Emma."

"Yeah, kid. Dude's got a bad case of jealousy over you and Sam bein' all _friendly_. Haven't you noticed?"

Stiles blinks. "No? Derek's always like that."

Sam and Dean exchange a speaking look.

"Teenagers," Dean says, shaking his head, following Derek into the kitchen.

Stiles and Sam follow shortly after, still slightly embarrassed, but determined to move past it.

"Where's Cas?" Sam asks.

"He and Argent are still riding around. Seeing if he picks up any "weird vibes" or anything," Dean says.

"Did you find anything in the tunnels?" Sam follows up.

"Nah," Dean says tiredly. "We got diddly-squat."

The hunter leans over Emma, where she's cradled in the crook of Derek's arm. She blinks sleepily at him.

"Hey there, princess," Dean says. "Did you have a nice day? Is it time for a bottle?"

As if on cue, Emma starts hiccuping into sobs.

"Looks like it," Dean says. He looks up at Derek. "I'll get one ready."

Derek nods.

Stiles watches the exchange, wondering when Dean and Derek got over themselves and started coexisting peacefully.

"Something happened while you were gone," Sam says.

Both men look at him sharply. Sam looks at Stiles.

The teen elaborates. "One of the wards I painted on the window in the living room lit up."

"The ones that zap magic people?" Dean confirms.

"Yeah."

"Shit," Dean curses.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah."

"Did you go after them?"

Sam shakes his head at his brother. "Gone without a trace."

"Of course," Dean scoffs.

Derek looks at Stiles, brow heavy and mouth taut. "Are you hurt?"

Stiles blinks, unprepared for the question. "Uh. No. No, nobody got hurt. It seems like it worked like it was supposed to and he left."

Derek nods once, eyes back on his fussing daughter.

"I'm going to check the porch. See if I pick anything up," he says.

"I got her," Dean says, taking Emma from Derek to feed her.

Stiles follows Derek out to the porch. The werewolf scents the air, left then right, cocks an ear this way and that.

"Anything?"

Derek shakes his head. "Nothing new. Magic I can't follow. The smell of the wards is a little sharper than normal. That's all."

Stiles wasn't expecting any different. But still, he had hoped…

They stand on the porch for several minutes, Derek's keen eyes scanning the street. Stiles is staring at the werewolf.

"Hey, Derek—"

The teen is cut off abruptly when Derek turns heel and goes into the house. Stiles scrambles to follow.

Emma has consumed her bottle in record time and Derek takes her from Dean to burp her. Stiles automatically passes Derek a burp rag.

Derek says, "I'm going to take Emma upstairs for some tummy time. Once she falls asleep, I'm going to nap too."

Stiles swallows thickly. "Okay. I'll...be here helping Sam."

Dean raises his eyebrows and looks at his brother. Sam winces. Derek didn't even tell Stiles he should sleep too. Derek is _mad_.

Stiles sinks into his chair slowly, still watching Derek, who has turned his back to him now.

He disappears upstairs shortly after and Stiles' head clunks down on the kitchen table.

"Fuck."

"You said it, kid," Dean says. "I'm gonna call and check in on Cas."

 

Derek's nostrils flare when he enters Stiles' room. The bed still smells like Sam from where the hunter had been sitting that morning. His scent mixes with the overwhelming smell of Stiles and the lingering traces of Castiel, Dean, Derek, and Emma that still permeate the air. It makes Derek bare his teeth.

The bed is mostly clear of items that Derek imagines are now covering the downstairs table; all that remains of the mess are the spools of yarn. Derek sets them on the floor, then gently lays Emma down on the bed, avoiding the spot that smells like the younger Winchester.

Emma is doing well with developing her neck muscles and she lifts her head for a beat to look at the room. Derek swipes a hand over her soft hair; it's gotten longer in the week that she's been here.

A week.

It's been a week since Derek became a father.

 _Father_. That's still not really a word Derek is used to. He's been saying it to himself in his head, repeating it over and over again, trying to get used to it, but he still feels more like a big brother than anything. But no, father and daughter. That's what they are.

Well. Father and daughter and _Stiles_ , whatever _that_ 's called.

Stiles is so much more than a babysitter or a caretaker. He's pack and he's important whether Derek will ever admit that outside of the confines of his own head or not. He's also a pro with kids which is an unexpected bonus to his involvement with Derek's new path to parenthood. He's been invaluable so far; Derek would have been completely lost without him.

Stiles has no idea how much Derek needs him.

He _really_ doesn't. Because Derek has thought about things. He's thought about the fact that Emma is witch-born and, as Dean pointed out, Stiles is the only witch he knows, much less trusts. And he knows Stiles well; the young man may not have a clue about his magic now, but he will, given time. And then he'll know _everything_ there is to know. Stiles will be who Emma goes to for answers to her questions, for training, for commiseration.

 _If_ Stiles sticks around to do any of that, that is.

Once Stiles graduates he could be gone forever. Derek wouldn't put it past him after everything that's happened. But then again, no, probably not. Stiles and his unwavering loyalty will probably keep him in Beacon Hills until the day he dies. Which is not a good option either.

Stiles deserves better.

Or, hell, maybe Stiles will decide to start running around with the Winchesters and hunting monsters. Maybe he's just that taken by them that he'll want to go with them and volunteer his supernatural knowledge and magic to help them. Maybe he'll just follow after _Sam_ regardless.

Derek snorts through his nose. He doesn't know why he's thinking about any of this; he doesn't have a say in Stiles' choices or what he does with his life. _He_ certainly doesn't factor into any of it, even if his daughter might.

Emma pushes her head up again and Derek meets her eyes, flashes his blue. She emits what he thinks is a sound of wonder, but could also very well be due to gas.

Tummy time passes with Derek shifting parts of his face one at a time, his eyes, his ears, his teeth. Emma seems enraptured by it all.

Until she isn't and then Derek knows it's time for a nap.

He crawls into Stiles' bed with Emma, very pointedly rubbing his hand over the Sam-spot when he pulls the covers up. Emma he covers with a separate blanket, one of her baby blankets he brought from home, where she lays nestled on a pillow apart from Derek, but still where he can curl an arm around her.

He hears Stiles coming up the stairs a few minutes later.

The teen hesitates outside his door, which is sort of ridiculous. It's _his_ room even if Derek is borrowing it. But then a light rap comes as he opens the door slowly.

"Derek?" he calls quietly.

Derek leans up enough to raise his eyebrows at him.

"Um. I thought you were going to make me take a nap today?" Stiles jokes.

Derek's expression flattens.

Stiles' smile fades away, replaced by nervousness. He clears his throat. "Look. I'm sorry me and Sam were goofing off. It was just for a minute, but it was irresponsible. It won't happen again. You...you can trust Emma with me."

Derek frowns. Is _that_ why Stiles thinks he's mad? Well...it's better than the truth which is that Derek didn't like seeing some older man all over him.

"I know I can trust you with her, Stiles," Derek says.

Stiles blinks. "Oh. Okay, um. So you're not mad?"

"No," Derek says.

Stiles purses his lips. "So earlier…?"

"I was upset that the witch was here."

"Oh. Right. Okay. Good then." That makes sense. Of course it wasn't about _Stiles_. What was he thinking?

"You should sleep," Derek says meaningfully.

Stiles smirks. "So you _are_ going to force me to take a nap."

"Shut up and lie down."

Stiles grins impishly, but complies. He crawls in next to Derek, careful of Emma by their heads, then snuggles in. He doesn't know when exactly it got not-weird to share a bed with Derek Hale, but there it is. Stiles very carefully doesn't think about nightmares and lullabies.

The teen lifts a hand to lay on Emma's belly briefly, then brings it back down to curl between his and Derek's bodies.

Derek rumbles once in his chest, a content sound that he doesn't mean to let escape.

Stiles sighs softly.

The teen smells like the younger hunter. Derek doesn't like it, but what exactly does he think he's going to do about it?

Nothing that wouldn't get him arrested by the Sheriff.

Derek can't just get over it though. He's trying, _really_ trying to ignore it, but it's—it's intrusive. There's the smell of himself, of Emma, of Stiles and—and that should be it, but then there's _Sam_.

Derek's lip curls back without his consent, teeth sharpening. He _hates_ this. He feels so out of control.

He feels a finger poke him in the mouth and his eyes snap open.

Stiles is looking at him concernedly. He withdraws his hand slowly. "What're the teeth for, Chomper?"

Derek clams up instantly, lips closing tight and fangs receding. He doesn't answer Stiles.

Stiles' scent spikes, anxiety creeping in. "Is...everything okay?"

That is the question.

Derek doesn't answer that either.

Stiles seems to get it anyway. After all, how could things be okay? The enemy was at their door today, knocking to get in. "Yeah..." he says. "I know. Let's get some sleep, huh?"

Derek nods once against his pillow.

Stiles gives him a wan smile.

It's thievery, what Derek does next. They could hang him at the gallows for his actions. Derek reaches up and clasps his hand around the back of Stiles' neck. He squeezes lightly and Stiles' smile transforms into something real.

It's robbery, what Derek does with that smile, the way he greedily tucks it away from sight, hoards it like a treasure he has no right to claim.

It's the moment that Derek realizes he's probably in love with Stiles.

"Sleep," is what he says, because it doesn't matter. Nothing can ever come of this.

"Yeah," Stiles says wearily, suddenly more than ready to succumb to slumber's sweet pull.

His whiskey eyes disappear behind closing lids and his soft, pink lips part on a breath.

Derek lets his hand stay pressed into Stiles' skin until they wake hours later.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Y'all can come talk to me on tumblr or whatever: http://mommymuffin.tumblr.com/. 
> 
> Imma warn you it's 90% Star Wars right now though.


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